


The Missing 'J'

by SherEko



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Brotherly Love, Confused John, Confused Sherlock, Crying Sherlock, Dark Sherlock, Dead Moriarty, Deadly John - Freeform, Deadly Sherlock - Freeform, Depressed Sherlock, Drunk Harry, Gore, Helpful Irene Adler, Helpful Molly - Freeform, Hurt John Watson, John Being a Hero, John Watson is Missing, John being a good friend when he doesnt remember anything, M/M, Memory Loss, Murdering Sherlock - Freeform, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft being stupid, Mycroft hurting Sherlock, Secretive Mycroft, Serious Injuries, Serious John, Serious Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock's Heart, Sherlocks walls break, Singing, Stressed out Lestrade, Stressed out Molly, Tension, Tired John, Tired Lestrade - Freeform, Tired Sherlock, Unplayful Sherlock, crying Molly, missing John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-07-23 01:12:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7460781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherEko/pseuds/SherEko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His eyes darted around the room that was cluttered with papers, experiments, dark shades on the tables and walls from explosives, and dirty dishes. He took a deep breath and showily released it, his eyes glancing at the clock for the hundredth time. His fingers remained intertwined together and his lips firmly pressed against them. He closed his eyes and exhaled a deep breath. Something was missing. It was all wrong. All weird. Something was missing. Missing. Missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Missing 'J'

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Sherlock fan fiction, so be gentle and somewhat nice. Thank you for selecting this to read, it means a lot. I'll try my best update regularly so I don't leave you hanging....

His eyes darted around the room that was cluttered with papers, experiments, dark shades on the tables and walls from explosives, and dirty dishes. He took a deep breath and showily released it, his eyes glancing at the clock for the hundredth time. His fingers remained intertwined together and his lips firmly pressed against them.

He slouched in his chair in the kitchen, his elbows resting on the table, and his legs bent under the chair he was sitting in.

He closed his eyes and exhaled a deep breath. Something was missing. It was all wrong. All weird. Something was missing. Missing. _Missing._

He inhaled and exhaled sharply, eyes darting open and his pupils widening. Of course. It _was_ all wrong. Missing. Gone.

His mobile went off in his pocket and his hand darted for it, flicking it open with a flick of his wrist, and his eyes scanning the small screen.

_‘I have what you want’_

What is that?

_‘You won't get it back’_

Okay, great. And?

_‘At least, not yet’_

Ah, there's the shock!

_‘Do something for me to win it back’_

Mmm, let me think about it-

_‘Jump’_

_‘No_

_-SH’_

He threw his mobile across the room and stared at where it landed on the floor, the phone was opened and lit.

His eyes narrowed at the small device.

_Evil_

The mobile vibrated on the floor and was snatched up in seconds by the owner. His eyes scanned the screen and text as he sat back down the way he was before.

_‘I know where it is’_

_‘Who are you?_

_-SH’_

_‘I know where he is’_

_‘Answer me or sod off_

_-SH’_

_‘Just one thing can get it back’_

He huffed a laughed and the sides of his lips slightly jerked up. His eyes filled with amusement. _Amusing._

_‘Sorry, what did you want me to do again mummy?_

_-SH’_

_‘Jump’_

His fingers were about to text a reply but was cut short from the other person beating him to it.

_‘Jump’_

_‘Jump’_

_‘Jump’_

_‘Jump’_

_‘Jump’_

His breath slightly hitched, eyes going wide for a second with shock before disappearing once again.

_‘Who are you?_

_-SH’_

_‘Jump’_

_‘Where is he?_

_-SH’_

_‘Don't worry Sherlock’_ the message read, ‘it won't be the first time you died’

Sherlock breath became uneven and his grip on the phone tightened. His eyes widened and his thumbs shook. Who was this man? This, this monster?

_‘Who are you?_

_-SH’_

Nothing.

_‘Hello! Answer me!_

_-SH’_

_‘Of all times to ignore me you do it now?_

_-SH’_

_‘Arse_

_-SH’_

 

\----

 

Stomping on the stairs was heard from the top of it, through the closed door, and into Sherlock's ears. He sat on his chair with his violin in his arms, slowly plucking at the strings.

The door opened to Mrs. Hudson, who waved her hand Infront of her face to blow off the dust that blew her direction. She coughed a fit before looking at Sherlock, raising her eyebrow she made a ‘hmf’ sound.

“Mr. Holmes, what's the matter with you for lord's sake?” She said as she quickly made her way to collect the empty glass cups that littered on the floor and tables. She cringed when she smelled the inside of the cups before rushing into the bathroom to collect even more.

“Sherlock!” She called from the door, “It's a pigsty in here! You should clean up after yourself you know! I'm your landlord, not housemaid!” She yelled from the bathroom before rushing out and into the kitchen.

Sherlock, of course, just blankly stared ahead of him in his loose blue pajama t-shirt and loose blue striped pajama pants. His hair was a mess and sticking out from all directions and his chin even had hairs growing already. He might've been the living dead if he wasn't breathing and blinking.

A knock was heard from downstairs and the clanking of the class cups stopped, Mrs. Hudson then rushed downstairs as she yelled ‘wash yourself up Sherlock’. The door opened and voices were heard, nothing Sherlock payed attention to. He continued to lifelessly pluck at his violin strings. His eyes darted at the door for a split second as the sound of footsteps were heard coming up before darting back ahead.

Mrs Hudson came in with a familiar man whom Sherlock didn't exactly favor.

“Good morning little brother.”

“Sod off.”

“Right back at you little brother.”

“Arse.”

“Oh quit it!” Mycroft exclaimed, picking Sherlock with the tip of his black umbrella. He settled in the client's chair and continued to stare at Sherlock, who started to slowly slide down his chair.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he watched as Sherlock slowly slid in his chair and blink when Sherlock stopped, the bottom of his back hanging off his chair and his chin tucked in his chest.

Mycroft blinked a couple of times before looking away and shutting his slightly open mouth. He cleared his throat and looked back at Sherlock, who still looked dead and plucked at his violin.

“So,” Mycroft started, “How are you little brother?” He smirked.

“Where's your little army friend? Did he go off to get you a girlfriend?” He teased, earning a glare from Sherlock in response.

“Don't know.”

“What?” Mycroft said, acting slightly shocked at the news.

“”Don't play stupid with me you arse-”

“Watch your mouth-”

“I said I don't know and you heard me.”

“Hmm,” Mycroft hummed in thought leaning back in the chair and laying his right ankle on his left knee, “interesting.”

Sherlock's eyes darted to his brother, who stared off in thought ahead of him.

“Where is he Mycroft? You have that look-”

“What look? I don't have a look little brother. If you were as smart as me you would know that.”

Sherlock lowly growled.

“Sod off.”

“And, if you were as smart as me you'd figure this case out.” Mycroft said as he threw a file into Sherlock's chest. “It actually is quite interesting.”

Sherlock stared at the file before looking back at Mycroft. “You know where it is. Give it back.”

“I, sadly, have no clue as to what you are talking about Sherlock. I don't know what ‘ _thing’_ it is that you're missing, but that's the file and case to solve it-”

“So you _do_ know what I'm talking about!?” Sherlock raised his voice and narrowed his eyes, “I told you not to play stupid and you are!”

“Patience little brother-”

“No! Where is it!”

“I don't know sher-”

“WHERE IS IT!?” Sherlock shot up in his chair and before Mycroft knew it Sherlock was inches away from his face. His pale, skinny face looked at Mycroft with hidden emotions, Mycroft obviously knew he was mad because of his outburst, his dilated pupils, his harsh breathing, and his clenched jaw.

Mycroft however also knew that he himself was not angered by Sherlock's ways, he remained calm and didn't move a muscle as Sherlock shot In front of his face. He had a neutral face, so Sherlock would understand he wasn't freighted and Sherlock would get even angrier.

“Did you brush your teeth today? Your breath doesn't smell like mint-”

“I ate.” Sherlock immediately replied.

“I'm going to ask you once more Mycroft. Where. is. it?”  Sherlock venomously spat through clenched teeth.

“You'll get your answers in the case.” Mycroft replied silently, almost a whisper.

Sherlock breathed in deeply and held it for a second before letting it out, his and Mycroft's eyes never breaking apart.

“Fine, I don't need you anymore. Goodbye.” Sherlock pushed himself up from his knees on the floor and grabbed his violin again and placed it underneath his chin, his bow sliding against the strings. A deep note was played and continued to stretch out for minutes, no other note was played but that deep one.

Mycroft, though very confused and concerned for Sherlock's mental health now, stood up and dusted his black tuxedo before turning to walk towards the door. He paused in his tracks and turned around to face Sherlock again, though he was looking out the window as he played that bloody note, and cleared his throat. Sherlock payed no attention to him and continued on with the note.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, loud enough to hear over the low yet loud note, “is look at the case if I were you. You'll get the answers from that.”

“Goodbye!” Sherlock yelled and somehow played the note louder. Mycroft clicked his tongue against his teeth and walked downstairs. He said goodbye to Mrs Hudson and left, smirking slightly as he walked down the streets of London.

Sherlock had stopped playing the low note once Mycroft shut the door behind him. He considered throwing the file away into the fire pit and burning it, but he wanted to know where it was and how he could get it back. He put his violin away and picked up the scattered file that fell on the floor when he shot up to yell at Mycroft.

He opened the file and papers with a picture of the person who had been a victim to the case was connected to a paper of the information of them by a paper clip. He read all the sheets in less than ten minutes, feeding all the information to his mind, storing it in his mind palace.

All the people who had been taken were kept and stored away from the world by the abductor before suddenly being brought back to the world and placed with their families again. The thing that had made Sherlock quite interested in is that the victim has no memory of their abductors face, voice, or location. Not even the smell.

The victims that were taken and put back in their places in their families usually had therapy or some sort of relievement. On one account, a man and two women killed themselves because of the memories. These people had been around twenty-five to thirty-four.

Sherlock hummed in thought as his mind was racing, trying to find out who would do this, what type of person, and where would the person most likely be hiding. Sherlock did know not to underestimate people due to self experience. A man who had five children and a loving wife had slaughtered sixteen people and buried them in his own backyard. An old lady managed to kill her three grandchildren and son before taking herself.

There were many people out in this world who will do about anything for money, which is what one daughter did. She killed her parents and two siblings before going out to collect her money from her boyfriend, who killed her after she asked for the money. Sherlock has gone through many cases and solved all the above. One took him almost a week, but he surpassed it.

He furrowed his eyebrows as he flicked through the pages and the pictures again. They all had blue eyes and no children. He managed to find that out sixteen minutes ago when he first looked at it, but wanted to make sure he was correct.

Which of course, he was.

Sherlock also realized and deduced that Mycroft had taken his phone due to the way he hid his hand from sherlock when he left, he didn’t hold the stairwell which he normally did, he didn’t use his right hand to hold his umbrella when walking, and he used his left hand to open the door. Mycroft also had the face that said he stole something and wasn't planning on giving it back.

 _‘Arse’_ He thought.

Sherlock then froze when he saw the last page with the picture of a person paper clipped to it. He slowly raised it closer to his face and stared into the eyes of this person. The name below the picture was in bold print and stood out to slap Sherlock in the face.

**John H. Watson**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention I love Cliffhangers? Well I do...... I'M NOT SORRY!


	2. The Address Where The Found Are Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade grabbed the paper he had scribbled everything down on and handed it out in front of Sherlock. The paper was slightly shaking in the air from Lestrade's tired hand, but stayed in the air.  
> Sherlock stared at it, realising this could be the answer to everything and he could find John before anything drastic happened to him. But in the other hand, it could mean that he was already too late and John would know nothing of a man named ‘Sherlock Holmes’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this story is interesting. If it's not, then tell me and I'll try to spice things up a bit.

“Maybe you should stop being such a dick.”

“No, that's just stupid”

“Think damnit! Think!”

“I'm not getting anywhere.”

“Just open the file again!”

“No! I can't! I just-”

“What!? Open it!”

“No I-”

“Open it!”

“Understand that I just can't handle the pai-”

“OPEN IT!”

The file was gripped by a pale and harsh hand before being ripped open. The cover of the file was no longer apart of the whole and was raised in the air, gripped by a pale hand, and all papers and pictures were out in the open for the man's eyes to take in.

John's picture, him slightly smiling at the camera with a white background and the normal jacket he wore with a blue striped jumper, was on top of the whole pile. It had all his information on the paper. That one paper. His birthday and family members and address and sex and eye and hair colour. Of course, Sherlock already knew this information from the three years of not only  living with John as a flatmate, but as a ‘friend’. That word always made Sherlock feel uncomfortable but he was certain that John wouldn't let it go. John would always call him by the name of ‘friend’.

He sighed and closed his eyes, thoughts pacing around his restless mind. He couldn't help it, really. John had tried about anything to get Sherlock back on his feet after falling down at such a young age. Then, a thought struck a chord in Sherlock's mind and shot his eyes and mouth open.

“I don't know about John's family.” He said aloud, wanting someone to reply. He couldn't help but stare at the picture again. He had told John in an argument that he knew absolutely _nothing_ about Sherlock, only for it to be true both ways. Sherlock also had no idea about John nor his past. He obviously did know that John was an only child and had partners that were never brung up when the  family topic was about.

He must've had a rough childhood, then leading him to join the military to get away for a little while.

No, no, no, no. Wrong. Wrong again. All wrong.

That's not John. That never is John. That never _was_ John.

Interesting, Really. Sherlock started to adore and get a liking for this case. He would have to find the man who abducts these people and returns them with absolutely no memory of him whatsoever. The only problem is- where is he to start?

 

_\----_

 

“Seriously, where are your manners?”

“Nowhere near you. So shut up and give me the the address.” Sherlock shot back, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“I honestly don't know what you're up to, but I could help you if you would calm down and let me explain to you why.”

“I don't need to know why these people were taken and I don't care! I only want the address John had last been seen at! Really Detective Inspector, I thought you would be better at your job and helping people in need but clearly you're as deplorable as a snail trying to beat a human in a mile race now give me THE ADDRESS!” Sherlock slammed his fist into the table, making all the objects on it jump.

Lestrade groaned and pinched the space between his eyebrows. He hadn't exactly prepared for this, oh wait, yes he had. He knew Sherlock would come storming in here to receive information on the case, but he hadn't exactly expected to be told off by Sherlock Holmes.

Not only did Sherlock not lift his mood, but he added multiple things to the ‘to do’ list. He had received many calls, messages, emails, hell even actual mail from parents, siblings, husbands and wives and friends from the people who had been taken. They all wanted information but sadly he didn't have any. He told the people that and they only got infuriated.  

“Sherlock, I'll try to get that but let me tell you why these people have been taken. When we had looked over the files and people we-”

“You don’t have the address!?” Sherlock yelled. He sighed as Lestrade shook his head sadly.

“Okay," Sherlock forcefully relaxed his fists, clenching and unclenching them repeatedly, "I’ll try to focus on something that I won’t snap your head at.”

“Who's we? There could be multiple ‘we’s. Don't tell me it was Donovan or Anderson because they're idiots and couldn't even tell if something pink had been turned to black.”

“No, no. It wasn't them. It was me and a couple other people that I trust more than them. We discovered that the people have blue eyes and don't have any children.”

Sherlock stared at Lestrade and felt like strangling him. He had already known that! He'd know that the second he looked at the file! He didn't even need to look at the photos to know what.

“I already know that Lestrade! Do you think I'm stupid now!?” Sherlock growled and glared at the DI in front of him.

Lestrade only sighed again and took a sip of his coffee. “No, I wasn't exactly finished Sherlock.”

“Then please,” Sherlock motioned for him to continue, “Indulge me with your new information that I don't already know.”

“The backgrounds that they had come from weren't the best. Some of them had abusive parents, some had siblings that would sexually molest them, some had parents that would take pictures of them in unfriendly ways. And a couple had abusive boyfriends.” Lestrade informed as he flicked through the files and pictures of the abducted people. He looked back up to Sherlock who was frowning and staring at the wall.

“Did you know that?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

“Shut up.”

 

\----

 

Sherlock had enough of Detective Inspectors for one day, oh wait, he was wrong on that one. One after the other after the other had came by Sherlock and stopped him for ignorant information about the case. Some of the questions were about what else he could deduce from the pictures and corpses of some people who had been abducted.

Some questions were about the background of some people whom he had no idea about and he'd call them ‘dim-witted simple minded cows’ and then left them to recognise what he had just said and called them.

Others just made Sherlock inwardly cringe because they had no connection of the case whatsoever. Some of those questions were about Sherlock's _personal life_ , and his _relationship_ with _John._ He had _no_ relationship with the man whatsoever and he would attack the people with deductions about themselves that were embarrassing and left them red before he asked them the same questions, smile, say ‘exactly’, and leave with his coat flapping dramatically behind him.

Lestrade had been somewhat of a help because he tried to get all of the Inspectors off Sherlock's back and return to work, but they usually just pretend to go back to work and wait until Lestrade left to resume his own work before they went back to the consulting detective again. Sherlock was irritated when they did that and he'd threaten them with deductions he has made.

“I'll tell your husband you've sold all the jewelry he bought you for money or you'll leave so I won't have to look at the fifty pounds of horrible makeup you've hitched on your face.” He told a woman who had been following him like a lost puppy.

“I'll make sure you're wife knows you bargain in strip clubs and have one night stands with them. Good day to you too sir.” Sherlock left the cursing, red man who had barely opened his mouth to ask yet another question about his and John's personal life.

“I'll make sure your daughter knows you made out with her boyfriend and flirted with him this past weekend. Seriously, you've got to make sure her boyfriend is a teen like her, not a twenty-five year old man. He's old enough to be her father, shame on you, really.” And with that, Sherlock had decided he should retire back to his flat.

Sherlock looked out the window as he usually had when he and John were in. The silence was normal too, but more colder as the figure to his right was missing. He inwardly sighed and self consciously, his hands turned to fist inside his black leather gloves.

John didn't deserve to be taken. How did Sherlock miss that he had gone in the first place? No, it wasn't exactly Sherlock's fault anyways. No, it was. He knew it was. And if anything happened to John that would be a second thing that was his fault, the third being that they met in the first place.

His phone rang and Sherlock opened it up without looking at the name or number on the glowing screen.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock? I got another piece of information I think you'd like.”

Sherlock frowned and looked down at his unoccupied left hand.

“What is it?”

“John had abusive parents,”

“Obviously.” Sherlock didn't exactly know what to do. He didn't know he had abusive parents and he looked back out the window. John had abusive parents? Really? Hell, he sure did never show it. John was too nice to have abusive parents.

“And a sister who's a drug addict and alcoholic.”

“A sister? John had a sister and never bothered to tell me this information? Wow, he must not trust me that much.”

Lestrade gave an emotionless dry chuckle oth the phone.

“Right. It's shocking. He's never mentioned his family or siblings at all.”

The cab turned a right and Sherlock looked at the rear view mirror before back outside his window.

“Yes, it is.”

“Oh and Sherlock?”

“Yes? What is it now Lestrade? I don't like talking over phone. I prefer texting.”

“Yes, yes, I know. But I have one more thing to tell you before I hang up and get back to work.”

“What is it?”

“I know where John was last seen-”

The phone cut off and beeping was heard. Sherlock stared ahead out the window with his phone at his ear for a second longer to process what had happened before he flung his body towards the driver's seat. His hands clutched the headpiece of the seat tightly.

“Take me back to the station!”

“What?! We're almost to your-”

“TAKE ME BACK TO THE STATION OR MAY GOD BE ON YOUR SIDE TODAY!”

“TURNING AROUND NOW!”

“GOOD!”

 

\----

 

Lestrade had sighed and tapped the stacked papers on the table to fall neatly and perfect. He put the papers on the table again before taking a look around his office and running a hand through his grey black hair. Today had been hell. So many families to argue to and so many inspectors to chase and shoo away along with reporters and Sherlock yelling and running around, mouthing off anyone who got in their way.

Yeah, today was tough.

Lestrade huffed and sat back down in his comfy, black, padded swivel chair. He closed his eyes and sighed again before sitting up, opening his eyes,  and grabbing his coffee mug. The coffee had been made extra strong to keep him awake, but that only cost him hours to be spent awake then asleep and dark purple half moons under his eyes.

He brought the mug to his parted lips and took sips of the strong black liquid. He took a large gulp and was halfway down his throat when he decided he was finally done for the day and he was relaxed.

Until Sherlock kicked open the door.

The coffee came out of Lestrade's mouth and nose. He spit the coffee across his table and the coffee slowly and painfully dripped down Lestrade's nostrils down to his chin.

He slammed the coffee mug down on his table as Sherlock approached him with a scowl on his face.

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL SHERLOCK!”

“What do you mean by John has a sister?” Sherlock ignored Lestrade's irritated glare and slammed the file of the case without its cover lid down onto his coffee splattered table.

“He never mentioned a sister and I've never deduced or heard of it! Who is she and why the bloody hell isn't she here trying to help us find her brother?!” Sherlock looked more irritated and worn out than Lestrade. His hair was a mess, which never happened on Sherlock's account, and he had dark half moons under his tired, wary, clouded eyes. His skin was paler too and he looked skinnier. His face was caved in more than normally and his eyes looked darker than before.

“Where was John last seen Lestrade!? Answer me or I'll wrench your tongue out of your throat so you can't!” Sherlock slammed his fist on the table.

Lestrade sighed harshly and narrowed his eyes on the Consulting Detective.

“I'll tell you if or when you calm down. And for God’s sake Sherlock, it's nine forty seven in the night and I just want some sleep for once.”

“So?” Sherlock scoffed and frowned at Lestrade with a look that said ‘Do I look like I care?’ Oh yeah, no.

“So, when I tell you, you're gonna go back to Baker Street, get some sleep, eat a proper meal because you obviously haven't in days, and then get your arse back here at twelve or one in the afternoon. Got it?” Lestrade jabbed his finger into the table as he said ‘got it’, which earned him a harsh glare and a huff from Sherlock.

“Yes. Anything else mummy?”

“SHERLOCK!”

“WHAT?!”

A silence filled the room as the two men in the room breathed harshly and glared each other down. If looks could kill, Lestrade would be only a blob of flesh and Sherlock would be decapitated with his limbs torn off.

“Just tell me where John was last.” Sherlock spoke in a soft, silent tone. He looked around Lestrade before making eye contact with him again. His eyes softened and his fist untangled.

“Please.”

Lestrade was taken back by that. Sherlock Holmes had just said please?! What was John doing to the guy?

Lestrade sighed and dropped his head. He didn't mean for things to get _this_ out of hand. He simply wanted Sherlock to just get up and take care of himself a little more better than usual.

Lestrade had of course remembered all the things and stories John had shared with him about Sherlock. John had to force Sherlock to eat and sleep normally and sometimes to even bathe. John smiled and chuckled when he told these stories and called Sherlock crazy and insane, but he liked it.

John enjoyed Sherlock.

And Sherlock enjoyed John.

God they should kiss.

Lestrade grabbed the paper he had scribbled everything down on and handed it out in front of Sherlock. The paper was slightly shaking in the air from Lestrade's tired hand, but stayed in the air.

Sherlock stared at it, realising this could be the answer to everything and he could find John before anything drastic happened to him. But in the other hand, it could mean that he was already too late and John would know nothing of a man named ‘Sherlock Holmes’.

Sherlock grabbed the paper and flipped it over to see the side where the writing was. He stared and memorised the address before looking back at Lestrade.

“How did you find this?” Sherlock asked quietly.

Lestrade stared at Sherlock, his brain realising that he was asked a question.

“Mycroft helped me a bit. We looked through all the cameras and followed where John had gone that one day. He went into that store,” Lestrade pointed at the address on the paper, “and never came out. We watched the tape over and over again but we couldn't find an answer.

Mycroft had a few ideas and theories, but he just told me to leave and get some sleep, that he'll be able to find out in a couple hours.”

Sherlock's mind swallowed the information. Mycroft was in on it and looked through the cameras. John went into a store and never came out. John hadn't been followed by anyone around him. John had disappeared.

John was missing.

“Any back doors?”

“Looked at the cameras all around the store. No John.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and looked at the paper. He looked up back at Lestrade and gave a nod before turning and walking away.

“Oi, you're not going to the store, are you?” Lestrade asked as Sherlock had gripped the door handle.

Sherlock's lips twitched into a slight smirk and he turned around to face Lestrade.

“No. I have a promise to fulfill. Good night Detective Inspector.”

And with that Sherlock had gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to update as regularly as possible. Thank you for reading and I'll be back to you soon!


	3. In Which The Cashier Is Bagging Bodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He was looking around the store and slowly making his way back to the door before he opened it and ran. Now tell me, Lestrade, does that sound suspicious?” Sherlock whispered quickly as he leaned towards Lestrade.  
> “Does it sound like he had a person in the bag? Does it sound like he kidnapped John Watson?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all who read this! It really means a lot. Here's the next chapter for you. Enjoy!

 

Sherlock had remembered the first time he had cared for something so much that he'd die for it. He had only been a kid, but Sherlock still loved it senseless. 

Redbeard. 

His dog had been the precious thing in his life that kept him going. That dog had done miracles for Sherlock and Sherlock had done miracles for that dog. 

He had Redbeard for years before he had died. Sherlock had been crushed by the death of his animal friend, but Sherlock lived to remember that dog. 

He had also remembered first time he had been scared to love something so much that he would die for it. 

Sherlock had always been told that caring is not an advantage and love should always be avoided and disregarded by his older brother. 

As much as it hurt to look and pretend he didn't care, he did. He always has cared for everything that has done something good in his life. It's just reminded him of Redbeard. 

But the thing that Sherlock had cared so much for that he would die for it is a man. A blonde man he might add. 

He's done miracles for Sherlock. He made him quit doing drugs and eat, sleep, bathe, and care. The blonde had also given him a miracle no one had ever wanted to do for him in his whole life. So simple yet so strong. 

A friend. 

And now he's missing. 

Sherlock wouldn't just stand back and allow John to have his memories plucked out of his mind. He wouldn't let anyone hurt or take John away from Sherlock unless it was for happiness. 

And it clearly wasn't. 

And Sherlocks pissed. 

And when he's pissed he's deadly.

Sherlock walked into the shop that John had entered in but never came out of one month ago. 

He went down the aisles and looked around, cringing inwardly when he saw objects or items that reminded him of John. 

Sherlock had looked down at the piece of paper Lestrade had written the address and number of the cash register on. Luckily John hadn't used self checkout, his card never worked with it. 

Sherlock went to number five and waited as a man in his forties finished paying and left with his bags. Sherlock stepped up and looked at the woman who had straight hair that went to her shoulder blades. She wore quite a lot of makeup and had a red shirt on that had a button with the shop's name on it with light blue trousers. 

“Yes? May I help you sir?” She brunette asked as she looked Sherlock up and down with brown eyes. 

“Yes, I would like to know if I could check the computer to see a credit card number and receipt.” Sherlock told the woman quickly in his baritone voice, his eyes scanning the cash register and conveyor belt. 

She cocked an eyebrow and looked bored along with suspicious. 

“Why would you want to do that?” Sherlock inwardly sighed as he took a deep breath. He took the paper out of his trench coat pocket and handed it to her with his gloved hands. 

“A man was reported missing in this shop, he was at this cash register and I would like to see what he had bought and around what time along with how much money he had spent.” Sherlock pulled his scarf tighter on his neck to prevent his hands being on the woman's neck, who looked at the paper in disinterest. 

“I'm going to have to speak to my manager. Who are you exactly?”

“A man who solves crime and is going to solve yours next if you don't let me look at it.” Sherlock mumbled, earning a surprised look from the woman. 

She scurried off, leaving Sherlock watching as she went to her manager's office. Really, why and how are people like her hired here? They're what people dread the most about shopping. 

He had waited five minutes before the manager came and asked him questions about the reason he wanted to check the computer. Sherlock had answered the man who was about the same height as him. His dirty blonde hair combed back and his strong cologne reeked the man's blue shirt and trousers. 

He had also looked at Sherlock suspiciously before he allowed him access when Sherlock had called Lestrade to talk to the manager since he didn't believe that Sherlock was the actual ‘Sherlock Holmes , the guy who solves crimes and can tell your whole life story by a speck of dust on your finger’. 

Sherlock had found the information about when John had come. He sighed and braced himself for everything when he found the name ‘John H. Watson’ on the list. 

He found out that John had bought three cartons of milk, strawberry jelly, eggs, a loaf of bread, biscuits, some more tea, and a new razor with multiple razor blades. 

He didn't have to pay much and John had left around nine thirty that night. He remembered getting a text from John that he was on his way back, which made Sherlock quickly put his experiment away before John entered the flat and realised Sherlock had mangled his shoes. 

But John had never went to 221B Baker Street that night. Or the days following. Sherlock had gotten suspicious and called and text John's mobile, but he never picked up or respond. 

Sherlock had then walked around London, keeping his eyes out for a dirty, sandy, blonde haired man that was at least a head shorter than Sherlock. He went to John’s favourite places and asked about him, but no one knew. 

Sherlock had walked by the cash register with a printed list of what John had gotten and payed for when he stopped dead in his tracks. 

Sherlock frowned and looked down at the cash register. There were dents and scratches on the metal parts of the register, along with the conveyor belt. 

How did Sherlock miss this before? No, he didn't. There was nothing there. 

Yet there was? No. Sherlock doesn't miss things so obvious. 

Sherlock moved his hands on the cash register and pulled out his magnifying glass. He frowned as he looked at the metal through the glass. 

It was clean. It must've been cleaned and scrubbed down pretty well. 

Sherlock moved to the conveyor belt. It had scratches in it, lighter parts on the black belt. 

‘Finger nails’ 

There were multiple finger nail scratches upon the belt, making the line where the nails had scraped a shade lighter. 

Sherlock took a picture or the cash register and conveyor belt with his mobile before pocketing it again. His eyes trailed to the ground and he realised it too had marking upon it that weren't there before when he checked. 

There were shoe marks, most likely from the tip or the bottom of the shoe being dragged or banged along the floor. There were multiple markings, two shades. One was black, the other was a type of grey. Black and grey shoes. 

John had black shoes when he left. 

John was here. 

Sherlock snapped a couple of pictures at different angles, ignoring the confused and disgusted looks from shoppers around him. 

He sent the pictures to Lestrade with a small caption. 

 

‘John was here

-SH’

 

\----

 

“I honestly don't know who exactly you are, or where you came from, but whatever you're doing can't be so important that you have to look at the security camera footage.” The manager said as he narrowed his eyes on Sherlock, who pressed his lips together and breathed out through his nose. 

“I honestly don't know who you are or where you come from, but whatever you're trying to stop won't happen.” Sherlock glared back at the manager. “Not with me.”

“Look dude, I've had enough of you going through shit that doesn't even concern you-”

“I'm a Consulting Detective! Sherlock Holmes! THE Sherlock Holmes! Move aside because I work WITH Scotland Yard and I can either play nice with you, or play dirty. Your choice.” Sherlock argued back with clenched fists. Really, he had enough of him. That stupid manager and his horrible cologne. 

Three minutes later the manager was being put into a police car and Sherlock was checking the camera footage with a slightly red mark on his cheek. 

He dated it back to when John had come into the shop and he watched it. Three minutes into the tape Sherlock fast forward it to around nine fifty at night and saw John enter. Sherlock switches his gaze to each camera as he followed John as he shopped. The store was about empty as two couples and one woman went around and shopped. By the time John was done they had left. 

Sherlock went to the main camera and watched as John loaded the groceries on the coveyor belt. He greeted the cashier, who greeted him back. A man with brown hair, a sharp face with a little bit of cheek fat. He was a little bit taller than John, about half a head. He was in shape from what Sherlock could tell from the two that were quite far away from the camera. 

John and the man were chatting as he scanned the items and put them in plastic bags. John payed with his card and when he went to grab the bags the footage went to static. 

Sherlock stared at the screen, his mind comprehending what had just happened and what his eyes had seen. 

He slammed his fist down on the table. 

He was close, so close to finding John, but of course, the static had to come and screw up everything. The footage had cleared from the static and showed the cashier by the door with a black bag. The bag was large, a large black bag. Large. Black bag. 

John was missing. 

Gone. 

John was in the bag, wasn't he?

Sherlock watched, filled with anger, as the cashier looked around the store. He slowly backed up as he kept glancing around, before he put his hand on the door and pushed it open, dashing into the night. The bag was with him and it was droopy and the cashier looked like he had a hard time carrying it on his shoulder. 

John wasn't light, but he wasn't heavy. It would a little bit of strength to carry the blonde. 

In ten minutes Sherlock had found the files for the cashier in the manager's office, downloaded the footage into his phone, and was walking away and out of the store. 

Something John never got to do. 

He was furious. His hands were fists by his sides. His eyes were cold and sharp, along with his breathing. He walked straight, the people in front of him moved out of his way with a worried glance. 

Sherlock was murderous. 

He could kill thousands of people right now, if he tried. Mycroft would probably put him into rehab and Sherlock wouldn't want to go there until he finishes this case. If not for the people and Sherlock himself, then for John. 

Sherlock hailed a cab and told the address to the driver through clenched teeth. His jaw was sore from how much pressure he put on it, but he didn't care. John was suffering more than he was for all he knew. 

The cab came to a stop in front of the department and Sherlock swung open the car door after throwing the money to the driver. He started walking towards the entrance, a serious blank face on. His mask was in place with his anger, and he wasn't a nice man at the moment. 

Sherlock pulled his gloves out and put them on, releasing the glove with a slap on his wrist. 

 

\----

 

“Sir, there's no new information and the public wants more of it now. They want information and we're receiving hate mail and threats. Sir, are you listening? Detective Inspec-”

“I heard you Elizabeth! Give me more time and tell them to wait on their greedy arses until we have more! It's us doing the work! Not them!” Lestrade snapped at the blonde woman, who nodded her head furiously before hustling from the hall they were walking down to spread the news. Lestrade continued walking as he passed people throwing empty cups of coffee away, madly signing papers, typing on the computers with their tired eyes inches away from the screen, trying to calm down people on the phone, and tossing papers Lestrade's way to sign or look over. 

Today was a long and busy day. He had enough of this and the family members weren't so happy, but the media and reporters were. He'd had to shoo away reporters left and right all day and he was tired of it. 

He had about a five hour sleep before the calling and messaging began and woke him up. So he wasn't in the happiest or best moods of them all. 

He entered his office and closed the door to block out the noise just outside of it.  He sighed and made his way to his chair, sitting down in it with a grunt of anger. 

Two minutes was all he asked for. Two minutes of pure silence and calmness. He hoped to reach that goal but of course, the gods weren't on his side today. 

Sherlock barged into the room and slammed the door closed behind him, his trench coat flapping dramatically behind him as he strides towards Lestrade. 

He groaned and ran his hands down his face. 

Really, was two minutes too much to ask for?

Sherlock looked more recovered and better than yesterday when Lestrade had last saw him. His hair was neat again and his trench coat and scarf didn't have wrinkles anymore. 

Good. 

But what scared Lestrade the most was that Sherlock had an almost calm face on when he walked in. 

Oh brother. 

Hell just broke loose today. 

Sherlock slammed the file of the cashier in the table and his phone following it soon after. He looked up at Lestrade and stepped back, his cold eyes making contact with the Detective Inspector. 

“I got information about the case and the disappearance of John Watson. I had gone to the shop and went looking through the store before heading to the cash register and noticed marks and dents.” Sherlock picked up the file and pulled out the printed pictures he had taken on his phone the cash register and conveyor belt. 

“I also found some marks on the floor. It was just polished but there were still marks. Shoe marks from where they skid.” Sherlock explained calmly as he pulled out the pictures of the floor with the shoe marks. 

I had gone looking through the camera footage and found John. I watched as he payed for the groceries with a male cashier.” Sherlock said as he showed Lestrade a picture of the cashier from the footage. 

“The screen went blank and when it came back up he had a bag. A large black bag that had something heavy in it.” Sherlock explained and stared at Lestrade as his jaw dropped. 

“He was looking around the store and slowly making his way back to the door before he opened it and ran. Now tell me, Lestrade, does that sound suspicious?” Sherlock whispered quickly as he leaned towards Lestrade. 

“Does it sound like he had a person in the bag? Does it sound like he kidnapped John Watson?” Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his voice got harsher and angrier quickly. Lestrade stared with disbelief. The cashier had taken John. 

The cashier. 

Wow. 

Who would hire such a guy?

Sherlock took a deep breath and leaned back, standing up straight before handing the file with the information about the cashier to Lestrade. He took it and opened the file. The picture of the cashier in the footage was in it. This was the man. 

The man who kidnapped John Watson. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this story is interesting. If not, tell me and I'll try to spice things up a little.  
> Until next time!


	4. In Which One Is Convicted But Not Believed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade made his way through the doors and entered the main hall. It was more like a mall, it was quite huge.   
> He looked around and spotted a blonde woman sitting in the chairs that were pushed against the wall.  
> She had dark blue trousers on, short blonde hair that went to her shoulders, a skin tight, yellow green shirt that outlined her flat stomach, with some running shoes on. Her head was down and she slouched in the chair, making it impossible to see her face.   
> “Johnny. Johnny-boy’s missIng"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter! Hope its not too bad. But enough of me ranting, enjoy!

 

Molly ran around the halls, files and papers and pens in her hands as she quickly went from one person to the next. She had been the major part of the autopsy reports and she still had yet to fail. 

She had countless hours of day than night and the lack of sleep was getting to her more than she wanted it to. 

Molly had just finished with an autopsy and was on her way to deliver it to her own office or room before she went to finish another one, and another, then another. This was just how her days had been since word got out that people had gone missing and then put back. 

She placed five files on her desk before running out of the room to do more autopsies. She turned multiple ways and panted harshly with her ponytail flapping and waving behind her. 

She had gotten a call from Lestrade that Sherlock was getting impatient with this case and he needed more information on it. Sherlock had wanted to come and work on the autopsies with Molly, but Lestrade and his team needed Sherlock at the station more than here in the labs. 

She entered the room and looked at a twenty year old woman. She was blonde and quite tall, blue eyes that were closed, pale skin, long fingers and fingernails. 

‘Foot size- eight’ Molly wrote on a clipboard. 

‘Hair- Blonde. Eyes- Blue. Skin- Pale/Fair. Height-’ Molly stared at the woman closely as she walked past her head. 

She frowned and moved closer to the woman, pulling the woman's hair out of the way by the pencil she was holding. Her eyes widened and her jaw fell open.

She scribbled what she saw on the collarbone of the woman. It was some weird symbol, one that Molly had never seen before. It was faint and had to be looked at very closely to see it.  

Molly scribbled the rest of the information in a flash, not caring if she misspelled a word or two. She darted out the room, her lab coat flapping behind her. If the collar was popped up she could have felt like Sherlock. 

She banged the door open to her room and threw open the files on her desk. She looked at the pictures if the corpses that were paper clipped to the papers with the information about the person. The same symbol was on their collarbone too. 

Molly grabbed her phone out of her pocket and quickly phoned the station. 

“Uh, yes? I have information about the corpses of the missing people. Yes. Get Lestrade.”

 

\----

 

Lestrade kicked his desk repeatedly before punching the top. He grunted and mumbled unclean profanity as he unleashed all his anger into his desk that hadn't done anything to deserve the beating. 

Lestrade could help it. Three more people went missing and four killed themselves. Again. Why was Lestrade just sitting here complaining about his work overload and lack of sleep when there were people being kidnapped and having their memories taken away from them? 

God, he was pathetic. 

His phone rang and made him stop halfway from delivering another kick to the desk. He stared at the phone as it rang before collecting himself, clearing his throat, and answering it. 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade here.”

“Lestrade? It's Molly. Molly Hooper. I got new information on the corpses of the missing people that had been given back to us. I found something on their-” a crash rang from the other side of Lestrade's phone. Molly screamed as the sound stopped. It sounded like glass had broken. Lestrade froze and stared ahead of him in shock and worry. 

“Molly?! MOLLY?!” 

“Lestrade! There's a symbol on their collarbones! I swear! I just found it and-”

“Molly! Calm down! Breathe, for God's sake. What was that that just fell?” Lestrade asked Molly as she looked around the lab. She shrugged and looked back at the blonde woman. 

“It was just a beaker. I guess I got a little too excited and bumped into it.”

Lestrade sighed. This was something that he didn't exactly want to deal with right now, but had to because she had new information that could help the case. 

“Look at the pictures of the corpses of the people who had been kidnapped. It's there, I promise and guarantee you it's there.” 

Molly looked proud. She smirked and puffer her chest out as she continued to pace around the lab, avoiding the shattered beaker off course. The last thing she needed right now was for glass shards to lodge up her shoe and into her foot. Though, she's had glass in her foot before, it wasn't an experience that she'd want to go through again. 

Lestrade picked up the file of the pictures, opened it and flipped through them. He had kept the file on his desk since Sherlock came in and slammed it on his desk with his phone. Sherlock had then, after he showed and explained the pictures he found and brought to Lestrade, shown the footage to him. 

Lestrade was concerned about John way more than he had before. Not saying that he cared about John like he would for a paper clip, but he wasn't as obsessed in finding only John like Sherlock. But after he had watched the video he had changed, and was going to do anything to find John. Including the other missing people, of course. 

Molly heard pages flipping through the phone and her smile widened. She had done something that could be told to Sherlock. To Sherlock. He would, no, he has to be impressed with Molly. He would smile and say ‘Good job. Be my wife’. Molly then sighed. No. That's not Sherlock. 

That's only Sherlock in her head. 

Man, she is lonely. 

Lestrade looked closely at the pictures, staring at their collarbone. His breath hitched and his eyes widened as he saw the faint sign on their collarbones. It was weird. Not a type of sign he's ever seen in his life. 

He had to tell Sherlock soon or else the tall Consulting Detective would come storming in and demanding why he hadn't been told as soon as their, as Sherlock called them, ‘stupid shrunken brains’ had found out. 

“Molly, have you told Sherlock yet?” 

“No. I was going to after I told you.” 

Lestrade looked back down to the pictures after he started to stare at his coffee mug. He swore he heard Molly mumble ‘please love me’. As much as Lestrade wanted Molly to just ask Sherlock to date him and confess, he shipped John and Sherlock just a tad bit more. 

‘Johnlock forever!’ He'd say. 

Lestrade smirked and looked back up to look at his door as the noise and commotion had gotten louder. His smirk faded and was replaced with a frown, his fist on the phone tightened. 

“Okay Molly, I'll tell you if we got anymore people heading your way. Thank you for the information. We'll give you an award or something you want.” Lestrade stood up his full height from hunching over the pictures. 

“Okay Lestrade. Or Greg? Which one? I don't know.” Molly mumbled. “I'll tell Sherlock. See you later.”

“See you later.” Lestrade pushed the ‘end call’ button and put the phone down. He closed the files after putting the pictures in them, then putting them in his top right desk drawer. He made his way towards the door and opened it. It was a mess. 

Pure hell. 

People were running around with papers and coffee mugs in hands. Others were on the phone with panic written all over their faces. In fact, everyone's face had a worried expression. 

“What's going on?” Lestrade stopped Donovan from speed walking down the hallway, people pushing and shoving to get to their destination. 

Donovan scoffed and crossed her arms her eyes narrowing dangerously. 

“Lestrade.” She hissed out, making Lestrade narrow his eyes too and his frown deepen. 

“What the bloody hell is going on? It's like a revolution started!” 

“Yeah?! Maybe because one has!” Donovan spat back. Lestrade growled and clenched his hands to fists. He had enough of her bloody attitude throughout the years he's been working at the station. He deserved a little more respect. 

“If you don't bite down the STUPID ATTITUDE OF YOURS, YOU'RE GOING TO BE IN THE REVOLUTION, GET KIDNAPPED FOR ALL I CARE, AND HAVE NO MEMORY OF ANYTHING!” Lestrade yelled furiously in her face, forcing her to back up and uncross her arms. Her eyes filled with shock, and what made Lestrade inwardly smirk was the fear in her eyes. 

“So shut up because unlike you, I haven't been on my arse the whole time, texting a stupid boyfriend! I'm TRYING to help people! And if you can't come in here and do the same, then LEAVE!” Lestrade glared down at her, his fists shaking in fury. 

The whole place had stopped and stared at him, silence ringing loudly against the tension. All eyes were glued to Donovan and Lestrade as they glared at each other, each one fighting the urge to punch and slap the other. 

“We found more information and more people are missing as others come back.” Donovan said in a low voice, keeping her eyes glued to Lestrade. “And a woman.”

Donovan turned around and gestured to the main door that lead to the main hall. Lestrade frowned even more. 

“A drunk woman.”

Lestrade made his way through the doors and entered the main hall. It was more like a mall, it was quite huge. 

He looked around and spotted a blonde woman sitting in the chairs that were pushed against the wall. He looked around, checking to see if anyone was coming to get her before making his way towards her. 

She had dark blue trousers on, short blonde hair that went to her shoulders, a skin tight, yellow green shirt that outlined her flat stomach, with some running shoes on. Her head was down and she slouched in the chair, making it impossible to see her face. 

Lestrade cocked his eyebrow before clearing his throat, stopping in front of her. Once she registered there was someone in front of her she looked up. Her eyes had dark half moons under them and her blue eyes were fogged. Her hair wasn't a mess, but it wasn't exactly neat. 

She frowned as she looked Lestrade over before smiling. She stood up and held out her hand. 

“Hi.” She said to a slightly shocked Lestrade. He shook his head before he smiled himself and shook the blondes hand. 

“Hi.”

He realised she had a firm grip on her handshake and a good posture. 

‘Military’

She released his hand and let it fall limp by her side. She looked around, still grinning her face off, before she spoke again. 

“I'm… Harry.” She paused before she finished her sentence. Oh yeah, she was definitely the drunk woman Donovan was talking about. He could tell because she had already forgotten her name, and she slurred as she said ‘Harry’. 

“But my name is… Harriet.”

“Nice to meet you Harriet. I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Yeah, I know. I saw your name tag thing.” She pointed to the board that had the names of missing people on it. Of course, his name wasn't on there and she was drunk out of her mind, but Harry had sounded familiar to him. 

“Okay. Well, uh, Harriet-”

“Harry!” She corrected. 

“Why are you here?”

“Johnny. Johnny-boy’s miss. He goning” 

“So, John’s missing?”

“Yes, he's miss.”

“And he's gone?”

“Yes, he's goning.”

“Okay,” Lestrade sighed, “And what relationship do you have wit-”

“RELATIONSHIP!? ARE YOU NUTS?!” Harry yelled and widened her eyes. 

“I'M HIS SISTER! THAT'S SICK!”

“No I meant-! Nevermind.” Lestrade ran his hand through his hair as Harry mumbled and ranted on about how sick it was for her to be in a relationship with her brother. 

So this was Harry. Harriet. Wow. 

She's the complete opposite of John.

Except for his caring heart. 

 

\----

 

 He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. His leg kept bouncing as he looked out the window. His eyes scanned everything, unable to keep focus and look at one thing at a time. 

Today, they were at the cashier's house. Yes, the cashiers house. 

It was quite a hustle getting here because everyone wanted to go and see the man who abducted John Watson, even Donovan and Anderson; but they were forced to stay at the station because they kept snapping at people with their nasty attitude. 

Harry had gotten over being drunk and suffered a mild headache due to the painkillers that they gave her. When she was actually self aware of what she was doing and saying she was a lot more like John than Lestrade thought. She was nice, quite smart, a little bit short -around John height-, and she was homosexual. 

John had always denied to being homosexual, but Irene Adler had gotten him to say he was slightly bisexual. Ever since then, she's always been smirking around John when he looked at Sherlock, even when he was talking to Sherlock. 

“He's so gay for him.” Irene would say. 

Lestrade opened the door and got out, closing it behind him. Multiple other officers had gotten out too, along with Harry. They all made their way to the front door quietly, looking around for anything unusual. 

Sherlock came striding out of one car and to the front where Harry and Lestrade were. When Sherlock's eyes landed on Harry he frowned as he deduced her. When he realised she was Harriet Watson, sister of John Watson, he looked back to the door as they kept walking. 

They would have came as soon as they found out that this was where the man lived, but they had sent a policeman and policewoman to scope out the area as they passed by the house casually; only to find that the cashier was staring out his window with wide eyes. 

They bumped it down two days to let the cashier settle down and relax before they made their move and came in. Thankfully, two days was all he needed to calm down from paranoia and anxiety. 

Once they were at the door Sherlock moved in between Lestrade and Harriet, making him in the middle, Lestrade to his right, and Harry on his left. He took a deep breath before releasing it through his nose and knocked on the door. His mask slipped on along with Harriet's. She looked calm along with Sherlock, but Harry did one thing that John used to do when his masked slipped on; She fidgeted with her trousers. 

The policemen had scattered around the house, stopping then the fence on the sides that blocked out access to the backyard came around. The house was quite large, it had a front patio and was a two story house. It was white and taken care of. There was a hazel brown fence by the sides of the house to protect his backyard and a green water hose neatly coiled by the side. 

The door unlocked from the inside and the door opened, the cashier coming into full view. He wore a red shirt and sky blue trousers, shoes, and a watch on his left hand. His hair was neat and his face was a little pale. His brown eyes widened when he saw the police badge on Lestrade. 

“Ye-”

“Step out of the house.” Sherlock told the man lowly. The man looked quite shocked from the order. He expected that from the actual cop, not a man in a trench coat, scarf, and black leather gloves. 

“I don't know what I di-”

“Step out of the house. Now.” Sherlock demanded with a sharper voice, his mask fully in place. 

The cashier swallowed before nodding and stepping out. He moved to close the door but Lestrade shook his head and held the door in place with his right hand. 

“Leave it open. Go over to the car's and we'll be with you shortly.”

“Sir, officer, listen. It's not what it looks like. It wasn't m-”

“Do we have to repeat every order we give to you again? Go over to the cars and we'll be with you shortly.” Harry sternly cut the man off, her hands clenched to fists as she spoke. 

Before they had came to the house, Lestrade had shown Harriet the footage of John being kidnapped. She had almost punched the laptop and she raged out on the wall. Her older sister instincts took over and she demanded she went to see the man who did this to her brother. 

She had told Lestrade the only reason why he had come was to find ‘Johnny-boy’ and bring him back. She didn't care what she had to do. She had found out he went missing when they list the names of missing people on the telly with the information about them (height, weight, colour of eyes and hair) and a picture to go along with it. 

She had ran out of her house that she shared with Clara. Harry was sure she probably left the door open and the oven on, but there wasn't any news on a house catching fire, so she was okay with it. 

The cashier was shocked and startled from Harry's outburst. He looked around at the three people standing in front of him. His eyes landed on Sherlock and his eyes widened. 

“So you're the guy he was talking about.”

“NOW!” Lestrade and Harry yelled at the man, earning a surprised yelp and jump. 

He made his way to the cars as instructed and Lestrade indicated the sign for the policemen to go search the house. 

Lestrade, Harry, and Sherlock made their way to the car's where the man was standing. He was fidgeting with his shirt and looking around. Once his eyes locked onto Lestrade and the other two people behind him he started talking. 

“Officer, I swear it's not what it looks like! It wasn't me!” 

“You have the right to remain silent until we find any evidence that you're innocent, but that's not likely to happen.” Lestrade narrowed his eyes at the cashier. 

Ten minutes of the police searching the house and the cashier pleading, they came walking out. Sherlock spotted that one officer was holding a clear plastic bag with an item in it. He couldn't exactly tell what it was due to other officers walking in front of it. 

“Sir, we found something in the house.” A tan policeman told Lestrade before backing away. 

Two policemen came up to show their findings, both which shocked Lestrade. The first one was the black bag on the footage, and the second one was a piece of cloth that was held in the plastic bag. Sherlock frowned at the cloth. 

He knew that pattern. 

“That's the bag he used to kidnap Johnny-boy.” Harriet whispered, her eyes never leaving the bag that once held her younger brother. 

“And what's this? Where'd you get it?” Lestrade asked as he pointed to the cloth. 

“We don't know who's it is sir, but we found it by the downstairs bathroom along with a collection of knives.”

“It's John's.” Sherlock added quickly after the red haired policeman finished talking. They all looked at Sherlock, Harry frowning as she wondered how he would know of such a thing. 

“It's John's. That was his favourite jumper to wear.” Sherlock stared at the cloth for a couple more second before he looked back up to Lestrade and Harry. 

Harry took a deep breath, clenching and Unclenching her fists before she turned around and punched the cashier on his jaw. He yelled in pain and fell backwards, landing on the rock driveway. 

Lestrade grabbed her arm to stop her from throwing another punch to the cashier. Her eyes blazed with fury and her breath heaved. She glared the man down before taking the bag with Johns ripped piece of his jumper from the outstretched hand. 

“What's that?” Sherlock bent down to look closer at the cashier. 

“Dylan Landon, I suppose you show me what I you know what I'm talking about.” Sherlock said calmly at him as he started to cower back. 

Dylan looked shocked and swallowed before slowly shaking his head. Sherlock only sighed and rolled his eyes in annoyance. He wanted to beat the pulp out of him for John, but he couldn't. 

At least, not now. 

Sherlock grabbed Dylan's shirt and revealed his collarbone. The symbol that he had been told about from Molly was on his collarbone too. 

He frowned and stood up, pulling on Dylan's arms to haul him up to his feet. Sherlock looked at Lestrade before he nodded. 

Lestrade nodded back and forced Dylan against one of the cars, pulling his arms behind back and handcuffing his wrists. Dylan kept pleading that it wasn't him, that he was forced to do it and it wasn't as it seemed. But Lestrade and all other policemen weren't fazed by it and shoved him into the backseat of the police car Lestrade owned. 

Sherlock got into the passenger's seat in Lestrade's police car and Harriet got into the one in front of Lestrade's. The engines of the cars roared to life. 

The radio on the car came on and Harriet's voice came through. 

“You deserve to rot in Hell.” She spat angrily but calmly. 

“You're making my brother do it.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this story is interesting enough. If not, tell me and I'll try to spice things up a little. Thank you for reading this story, it really means a lot. I'll try to update regularly so you're not left on a cliffhanger. Until next time!


	5. In Which The Letter Is From The Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three ran from the office and down the halls. Lestrade yelled at people to move as Donovan lead the way and Sherlock following silently. Donovan can to a stop in front of a door and Lestrade almost crashed into her. She opened the door and walked in, Lestrade and Sherlock following behind her.  
> The cashier was sitting down in the chair they made him sit in with his hands handcuffed to the table by the metal half circle. He laid face down on the table, unmoving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay of posting! I got caught up in a school workout program and family. But here's the next chapter. I'll try to update sooner for the next one.

 

 

 

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Hudson whispered as she looked around the flat of 221B Baker Street. Her face was somewhat worried and somewhat scared of what she would find today as she cleaned up the messy place up a bit. 

Sherlock had been a wreck since John had left. He had tantrums that only John had known how to handle and Sherlock was in a downright mood swing up in his room. He was just too confused and lost in this case that he spent all his time, thinking, up in his mind palace. 

He hadn't eaten since Lestrade had forced him to and that was about two or three days ago, and God, don't even get Mrs. Hudson started on the last time Sherlock had a proper bath. She should go up to Sherlock's room and demand him to take a shower, even if he didn't fully wash behind his ears. 

She had enough of Sherlock's bad moods and his constant glares as she told him to eat and drink water. 

“If the roles were switched Sherlock, John would've taken care of himself as he kept trying to find you.” 

“Well not everyone can be John, now can we?” Sherlock had once snapped at her from his position on his chair. 

Mrs. Hudson moved along the room and cleaned up, placing papers and files in a neat stack on tables and got rid of empty or cold glasses of tea. She smiled when she saw a dozen of water bottles littered around the countertops. At least he was staying hydrated. 

She cleaned the kitchen before heading to the loo, making sure to not place his shampoo and body wash bottles out of order. Once she was done she headed back to the main room and looked around. She went to go clean up a couple more places she had missed before she huffed in agreement that her work here was done. 

Mrs. Hudson went to go make Sherlock a cup of tea with some toast and fruits when a knock was heard at the door, stilling her movements. She wiped her hands on the kitchen towel before she went downstairs. 

“Coming!” She said as she made her way down the stairs. She opened the door and looked around when she found no one was there. 

“Oh.” 

She looked down at the doorstep and found a package. Mrs. Hudson bent down and grabbed it, tucking it under her arm as she walked back into the flat and closing the door behind her. She tilted the box at all directions and found a name. 

‘Sherlock Holmes’

She sighed and mumbled ‘boys’ before making her way back upstairs to where the sulking detective was. Mrs. Hudson went to stand in front of Sherlocks door with the package still in her hands. 

“Sherlock, dear, you've got a package.” 

Sherlock looked up from his slouched position in the middle of his bed to look at the closed door. He was wrapped in his white blanket and was in his loose pajama shirt and pants. 

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson. Leave it at the door.” He looked back down and blinked, licking his lips in the process. 

“Sherlock, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said in a soft voice. “Why don't you come and eat a little. You haven't eaten in days.”

“I'm fine Mrs. Hudson. Really. I'll tell you when I'm dying.” 

Mrs. Hudson sighed and looked around the box again. She frowned as she found no address from whom it was from or where it came from. Hopefully Sherlock would find this interesting and hopefully it would help his case. 

“Sherlock, this package doesn't have an address to where or who it came from. I'll let you see it if you come and fill your tummy with food and water.” Mrs. Hudson said in a song tune. 

Sherlock had gotten worse at eating and he was skinnier than she had ever seen him since he met John. He had ate about two days ago, and it was a salad. She watched him bite and chew into it and she smiled before nodding with approval, then moving to clean up. By the time she came back Sherlock and the salad were gone. He hadn't eaten since then. 

Mrs. Hudson's smile faltered when she heard no movement. She was about to turn around when she heard the muffled noise of his mattress. Her smile came back when sounds of movement was heard. 

The door clicked open and revealed a long, skinny, pale Sherlock in his loose pajamas. His hair was a mess and his eyes looked clouded. His hand still clutched the doorknob and his back was slightly slouched. 

“Oh Sherlock, go to the kitchen and I'll fix you something up.”

“Mrs. Hudson, that's really not necessary-”

“Nonsense Sherlock. Shoo! Go!” She lightly swatted at Sherlock's arm and moved out of the way so he could walk to the kitchen, which he did.

He sat down and slouched in the wooden chair as he fiddled with his fingers. His eyes never left his hands and his mind seemed to be elsewhere than reality. Mrs. Hudson moved around to pick up on the bowl of fruits, toast, and tea she had started when she was interrupted, stopping every once in awhile to check on what Sherlock was doing. 

The package was left out on the floor by Johns chair. Mrs. Hudson had seen Sherlock sneak a couple of glances towards it and she could tell he just wanted to open it and not eat at all. He had told her on multiple occasions that the thought of food sickens him. 

“Sherlock, dear, you know I'm here.” Mrs. Hudson said as she stirred Sherlock's tea, the toast and fruit bowl done. 

Sherlock's head snapped up from his hands and was placed in Mrs. Hudson's direction. He frowned and stared at her back as she stirred the streaming tea he would take only a sip of. 

“Of course Mrs. Hudson, you are here. You wouldn't be here if you weren't and you most definitely haven't been abducted like John and I wouldn't be here sitting on my arse waiting for someone to serve me food and a drink because I'm too lazy and selfish to myself and I would be out at the station trying to find out where you are unlike how I am with John and John's gone and John's not here and John won't remember me and John-”

He stopped when he felt arms wrap around him. He hadn't realised that Mrs. Hudson had turned Sherlock so he was facing her and that his eyes were stinging and blurry. They were probably red and his hands were shaking. Mrs. Hudson held him tightly and disregarded the fruit bowl, toast, and tea on the counter. 

He sniffed tried to push the tears down, which he did, but they came back up when John wouldn't leave his head. He was right, John was gone and he wasn't even trying to find him. He literally had to be fed and watered because he was sulking. John really was gone and he wouldn't remember Sherlock when he came back. 

It wasn't fair. 

Why John?

He sniffed as some tears had managed to escape. He tried to bring his hands up to wipe them away but Mrs. Hudson shook her head and lightly pushed his hands back down onto his laps. 

Sherlock hadn't realised how much he had been affected by this. He didn't realise how skinny or pale he was, bloody hell, he didn't even realise how tired he was. He didn't realise how much his mind was running around uncontrollably. 

He didn't know he was hurting. 

He rest his chin on Mrs. Hudson's left shoulder and let the tears silently fall. He hadn't cried in ages and he didn't want to change that. The last time he cried was when mycroft had called him a disgrace to the Holmes last name, but that was when he was ten. He was now twenty four years old. 

So was John. 

His body jerked, shocking Sherlock. What did that mean? Oh yeah, a silent sob. He's seen John do it before when he heard someone in his family had started doing drugs, but Sherlock himself had never experienced that. 

He remembered he just held John as he silently sobbed his heart out. He remembered when John kept whispering harshly ‘you bastard’ and ‘how could you, you little bitch’. 

And now, the roles were reversed, except Mrs. Hudson was the one holding Sherlock and not John. John had started to make noises as more sobs had came, they sounded like he was laughing, but he wasn't. He wasn't laughing inside or outside. If anything he was screaming and crying. 

Sherlock smiled as he managed to stop the tears. 

Like John did. 

 

\----

 

An envelope. 

A bloody envelope. 

Sherlock looked into the large box for anything else that was in there, but it was empty. After he had began to sob in his bed that one night, he began to laugh and he couldn't stop. He laughed so hard he fell over and almost knocked Mrs. Hudson down with him when she came to check on him from his nonstop laughing. His tears didn't stop but neither did his laughs. It was somehow funny. 

After that, he calmed down as Mrs. Hudson kept asking if he was alright and if he needed anything. 

“Just John.” He mumbled when she had left the room to go to her own flat. 

He was pretty sure she had called Lestrade after that, because he got a text from him. 

_'Are you okay?'_

_'Why?_

_-SH'_

‘ _I heard you were crying your heart out. Don't worry mate, we'll find John no matter what it takes. Just relax and breathe.'_  

_'Dully noted._

_-SH'_

_'Do you like him?'_

_'Goodbye!_

_-SH'_

Yeah, Sherlock had received several other texts after he left Lestrade. He finally got annoyed with the buzzing of his phone and went to check them. 

‘ _JOHNLOCK FOREVER!!! DON'T YOU FORGET!!!'_

Freaking Lestrade. 

_'Are you okay, little brother?_

_-MH'_

_'Sherlock, if you love him just as much as we know you do, then you would stop crying and be trying to find him._

_-MH'_

_'Oh, I spelled sobbing wrong. Whoops. I meant sobbing._

_-MH'_

_'I'll check on you later, little brother. Try no to break down again when I do._

_-MH'_

Yup. Mrs. Hudson had told Lestrade and Mycroft about his little breakdown. Now they both knew what had happened and how weak Sherlock is. They also now know how much John meant to him, and were now assuming that Sherlock loves him. 

Great. 

Fantastic. 

Sherlock threw the box towards the kitchen and stared at the envelope. It just had Sherlock name on it written in cursive. It was an average envelope. 

Sherlock frowned as he slowly opened the envelope, being careful to not rip the paper inside. Once it was fully opened he took a deep breath. 

His mind kept wandering to it being a letter that John Watson was officially brainwashed and had no memory of anything whatsoever. He kept trying to be positive and tell himself it could be a letter from John saying that he escaped and is now on his way home. 

Sherlock would run to the stairs and wait there if that was what the letter was about. And every time the door opened he'd fling his arms open wide and smile. 

“Come to me, honey!” He'd yell at the confused and happy John. 

He sighed. That wouldn't happen and this isn't what the letters about. Of course it isn't. If John had written it from that situation he would her put the address and all the necessary information. 

He pulled out the neatly folded paper and slowly unfold it. He stared at it and read it. 

‘The cash is in the bag’

Sherlock stared and reread it. This couldn't be it. There had to be more somewhere! He felt as if he could rip all his hair out of his head. He frowned and sprang up out of his date and paced around. His fingertips were pressed together and were held at his chest. 

Sherlock went to the mirror and stared at himself. His eyes were clouded and his hair a mess. He was bony and pale. He grimaced in disgust. 

Like John would do when he saw his reflection again. 

 

\----

 

“That's it?” Lestrade's chest puffed out as he huffed a dry laugh. He quickly looked around the room before looking back at the man in front of him.

“Are you sure that's it?” 

“Yes, I'm afraid both me and Mrs. Hudson have repeatedly looked over to box and the envelope.” Sherlock cocked his right eyebrow and looked down at Lestrade. 

“I know that, in just saying- it's just- what does, ‘The cash is in the bag’ mean? What could it mean Sherlock?”

“I don't know and I hate not knowing.”

“Yeah, but can't you deduce something out of it?” Lestrade raised his eyebrow and looked at Sherlock with hope and frustration. 

He had been looking over London's security footage with Mycroft before Sherlock had come in and ruined it. They were trying to find any suspicious cars or people over the cameras, but there was nothing that could lead them. 

Mycroft had taken his leave when Sherlock kept glaring at him and kept looking around and clearing his throat. 

“Do you bloody mind?” Mycroft snapped as he turned around in his chair to look at Sherlock. He shrugged and stared at Mycroft with a bored expression. 

“Apparently not if I keep on doing it, obviously.”

The tension between the three of them was still lifted in the air and Lestrade kept looking at Sherlock with sorrow. He also kept putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and giving it a squeeze whenever they talked about the case and John. 

Lestrade groaned and ran his hands through his grey hair. Things like this were Sherlock's thing, finding weird crap and then deducing it before running after the culprit and capturing him. The fact that Sherlock couldn't do that for this case was alarming. 

“You're overestimating the ability of deduction. If I had been able to do it with this case don't you think I would've done it by now? I don't know what this letter could mean and I want to find out as much as you do but there's only so much that I can do and handle. I may not act like it, but I'm a bloody human Lestrade. There are things I don't and won't know.” Sherlock snapped. 

Lestrade only stared shocked. His mouth immediately dried at the awkward position he had gotten himself into. He looked everywhere but Sherlock's eyes and blinked, clearing his throat once. 

“But there is one thing I could deduct from this letter.” Sherlock mumbled deeply in the silence as he stared at the letter in his hand. 

“The handwriting is Johns.” 

“WHAT?!” Lestrade exclaimed, slamming his hands into his desk and his eyes flinging open wide. His jaw dropped as he stared at Sherlock, who stared back with a slightly amused face. Lestrade knew he could and would deduce a couple of good deductions. 

“Yes, John still has his mind and had written this in somewhat of a hurry. The paper is old and worn down, so John is in a old and worn down place. His hand was shivering as he wrote this so he must know what's going on and what's going to happen to him-”

“No-”

“Yes, either that or it was extremely cold in the room.” Sherlock sarcastically said and rolled his eyes. 

“Wait, how'd you know that?”

“The ink smudge on the paper, obviously.” Sherlock said to a Lestrade that looked very confused. 

“He knows. They know. We know. I know. It's simple. We have to search for worn down places and send people in to investigate.”

“On it.” Lestrade nodded. 

“Oh, there's one more thing that I found in the box, Lestrade. It's not exactly unimportant and very useful.”

Sherlock said and handed Lestrade a tape. 

“A VCR tape?” Lestrade took it and frowned as he turned it at different angles. “Have you watched it yet?”

“No.”

“Really? I thought you would.”

“I thought you would too.”

Lestrade looked up to Sherlock as his mind processed what Sherlock had just hinted. His eyes lit up as he understood and gestured for Sherlock to follow him. The two went through the halls swarming of people and voices. 

People threw Sherlock confused, angry, sorrowful, and nonchalant glances. He brushed them off as quickly as they were thrown to him. What people thought and said didn't effect him. 

It never did. 

Lestrade opened the door to a room and gestured Sherlock inside before going in after him and closing it. The room was dark and had a computer and multiple VCR’s and DVD players. 

“This is the room that we can see and look at videos on.” Lestrade said as he watched Sherlock look around with a slight frown on his face. 

Lestrade sat down in the seat in front of the computer and inserted the tape into the VCR. He hooked up the VCR to the computer and jumped when the screen turned black instead or the blue scream that said ‘no signal’. 

Sherlock frowned even more and stood behind Lestrade, who was fighting to control his breathing after the minor heart attack. 

The screen turned white and a black box was in the middle of the screen before it widened and took over the whole screen itself, earning a ‘what the crap’ from Lestrade. 

The screen changed once again and a silhouette of a man was shown. It was only to the man's chest and up that Lestrade and Sherlock could see. He was wearing a coat, one that was familiar to the both of the men.

“John.” Sherlock whispered. 

“The cash was in the bag.”

“The cash was in the bag.”

“The cash was in the bag.”

John in the recording was on on repeat and he kept chanting the one sentence. Both Lestrade as Sherlock stared at the screen as John’s voice filled the empty and quiet room. Sherlock couldn't deduce anything because the lighting was off. Johns face was hardly visible and only his silhouette told that a man was in front of the camera. 

"He's saying 'was' not 'is'-" Lestrade started.

“The cash is in the grave.”

The screen turned black and smoke came out of the VCR. Lestrade quickly took the tape out of the VCR and ran out of the room with Sherlock behind him.

“MOVE PEOPLE MOVE!” Lestrade yelled. Lestrade went to his office and threw it in the trash can beside his desk. He looked around quickly as the tape caught fire and burned, melting inside of the trash can. 

He grabbed his coffee mug and poured it onto the tape, distinguishing the fire. He panted and looked dazed as he looked over to Sherlock with wide eyes. 

“The cash is in the grave? What could that mean?”

The door to Lestrade's office was slammed open, as it had closed behind Sherlock by itself. Lestrade snapped his head to the door and Sherlock mimicked his moves. Donovan was panting in the view and looked just as dazed and confused as Lestrade. 

“The cashier.” 

The three ran from the office and down the halls. Lestrade yelled at people to move as Donovan lead the way and Sherlock following silently. Donovan can to a stop in front of a door and Lestrade almost crashed into her. She opened the door and walked in, Lestrade and Sherlock following behind her. 

The cashier was sitting down in the chair they made him sit in with his hands handcuffed to the table by the metal half circle. He laid face down on the table, unmoving. 

“Look. He's not breathing Lestrade. He just… Fell. I don't know. I was outside of the room when I heard the thud.” Donovan said as she rubbed her arms with her hands. 

Sherlock and Lestrade took a look at the cashier and noticed he had stopped breathing. They both frowned and Lestrade looked around the room as Sherlock looked at the cashier. 

“There's absolutely no way that anyone could've killed him. Do you think he suffocate himself?”

“No, he was desperate to live. He was begging for us to believe him.” Sherlock said as he sniffed the table. 

“I don't understand.”

“The tape or the cashier?”

“Both! The cashiers dead!” Lestrade yelled. Sherlock stilled and stared, Donovan and Lestrade looking at him confused. 

Sherlock's eyes widened. 

“This is a clue.” 

Sherlock looked at Lestrade. 

“The cash is in the grave. They meant cashier.”

“Oh my god.” Lestrade whispered. 

“They killed him.”


	6. The Flat Where The Lost Are Found And Returned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade pulled over and stopped the car, putting his hand on Sherlock's arm to prevent him from leaving the car. Sherlock looked at the DI’s hand before looking at Lestrade himself. He took his hand off of the door handle of the car and placed it on his lap as he continued to stare at Lestrade.   
> “Sherlock, you know… We get that this is a hard case for you. It's,” Lestrade looked around looking for the word to choose before making eye contact with Sherlock again, “very emotional for us all.”  
> “What point are you trying to come across Lestrade?” Sherlock said in a slightly agitated voice.   
> “That you're not alone-”  
> “Goodbye Lestrade.”  
> "Sherlock!"   
> "Confused, Lestrade! I'm confused!"  
> "I know..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the late update! I didn't expect family and then going out of town and then school crap throwing papers and pencils at me. But, here's the next chapter and I promise this time that I'll update sooner! ONWARD!

 

 

 

 

Rain. Something that Sherlock and John had always loved hearing and watching. They both used to move their chairs to the window, make tea, turn off all the lights, and stare out into the view as the water droplets fell. It was peaceful and silent as John and Sherlock sipped away at their tea. 

Together. 

It was a silent truce and bonding time between both of the men who occupied 221B Baker Street. The men just sat and stared, occasionally making jokes or asking questions before going back to being quiet. It was nice, warming. It had even been relaxing, something that never quite happened to Sherlock. It was comfortable. 

Unlike this rain. 

Men and women stood around the grave of the innocent cashier. Well, possibly innocent. Lestrade and Sherlock stood quietly in the crowd as women wept and men sighed. Lestrade frowned and looked at the grave of the young man as Sherlock cringed and shrivelled up when people got too close and bumped into him. 

Once the funeral had finished with a prayer and a sad goodbye, the group dispersed and went their own ways. Sherlock and Lestrade walked towards Lestrade's car, Sherlock holding the umbrella above their heads with a tight fist. 

“You carry the umbrella.” Sherlock had said as he shoved the umbrella into Lestrade's chest before they left Sherlock's flat to go to the funeral.  

“No, you carry it.”

“I don't want to.”

“Well, neither do I!”

“All you have to do is hold it over our heads!”

“You do it, since you're so bloody tall!”

Sherlock went over to the passenger's side of the car with the umbrella, leaving Lestrade glaring at him as he walked to the drivers side, exposed for the rain to soak him. Once they were inside Sherlock threw the umbrella onto the back seats. 

Lestrade sighed and raised his eyebrows. He looked over to Sherlock, who was slightly frowning and staring ahead of him and into the rain.

“That wasn't so bad, now was it?” Lestrade said as he placed the key in the ignition and started the car. 

“Hmm, could be better. Too many people touching and showing emotions and sentiment for my liking.” Sherlock cocked his right eyebrow and sighed as Lestrade backed the car up and drove on the slick road. 

A calming silence rang through the car. Lestrade stared ahead, lost in his own thoughts as Sherlock casually drummed his fingers on his right knee. They both had met the parents of the cashier and walked away when she started to use unclean profanity against policemen. 

Lestrade didn't have his uniform on, instead he wore a black suit and black, shiny dress shoes; so the mother didn't know that she was cursing out Lestrade in his face. 

Lestrade ruined the silence as he cleared his throat, causing Sherlock to close his eyes and sigh again before looking at the disguised officer. 

“Yes?”

“Huh?” Lestrade said and looked at Sherlock before back to the road. “What?”

“Nothing. You cleared your throat. Did you forget five seconds after you did that?” Sherlock added sarcastically. 

“No, I was just-” Lestrade stopped midsentence as he stopped at a red light. 

He let go of the wheel and looked to Sherlock, who was looking back at Lestrade. 

“I just- I just wanted to ask you if you were okay. I mean, I thought that the funeral would remind you of-” Lestrade gestured his hand and looked at Sherlock sadly. “Well, you know.”

“Yes, I'm fully aware of who you mean. Though I don't desire to anecdote or speak about him. I'm just eager to get back to Baker Street and continue to search for the missing.” Sherlock frowned and looked back ahead of him. 

“And you should be eager to start moving the car right about now.”

“Oh shit!” Lestrade exclaimed as he realised the light was green. He slammed on the gas pedal and the car jerked forward. He looked in the rear view mirror and raised his hand to apologise to the people who were honking behind him. He awkwardly put his hand down and stared ahead of him again. 

Silence bare its way back into the car, making it even more uncomfortable to the two men. Sherlock was still slightly frowning and Lestrade gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly and stared wide eyed at the road ahead of them. 

Once they were back at Baker Street, Lestrade pulled over and stopped the car, putting his hand on Sherlock's arm to prevent him from leaving the car. Sherlock looked at the DI’s hand before looking at Lestrade himself. He took his hand off of the door handle of the car and placed it on his lap as he continued to stare at Lestrade. 

“Sherlock, you know… We get that this is a hard case for you. It's,” Lestrade looked around looking for the word to choose before making eye contact with Sherlock again, “very emotional for us all.”

“What point are you trying to come across Lestrade?” Sherlock said in a slightly agitated voice. 

“That you're not alone-”

“Goodbye Lestrade.” Sherlock unlocked the door and pulled the door handle, opening the door in one quick motion. 

“And we're here for you, Sherlock!” Lestrade said sternly as he gripped Sherlock's arm harder. Sherlock stopped, his leg was already out of the car and he faced away from Lestrade. He stared at 221B Baker Street's door, pondering on the multiple ways he could escape, and the multiple things that he could say. Either it was leave, or stay. 

"Confused, Lestrade... I'm confused."

"I know...."

Sherlock sighed and put his leg back into the car and shut the door once all of him was in the vehicle. He looked down at his hands, which were situated in his lap, and thought. He thought of what he could be doing right about now. He thought about why he wasn't inside his flat by now. He thought about why there was a package in front of his flat's door.

Sherlock moved his face so quickly to the window that his nose almost rammed into the glass. His multiple coloured eyes (mainly blue with a little bit of yellow, and even some green) fixed onto the small box that laid in front of the doorsteps. 

“Lestrade?”

“Hmm?”

“Has anyone sent us any new information dedicated to the case lately?”

“Uh, not that I know of. Why?”

“We have ourselves a gift.”

The two men stepped outside of the car and walked over to the doorsteps, Lestrade saying ‘excuse me’ as Sherlock frowned at the box and bumped into passing people without any signs of apologising. 

“My, how rude!” An elder lady said as she had just been bumped by Sherlock as she passed the door. 

“Sorry for my friend, ma’am!” Lestrade yelled after her, “The elevator doesn't go all the way to the top floor for him!” 

“Ow!” Lestrade exclaimed after Sherlock kicked his shin with his dress shoes. “Bloody Christ Sherlock…” He mumbled as he rubbed at his sore shin. 

Sherlock picked up the box and mumbled with a deep frown as he tilted it every direction he could. He opened the door to his flat and went in, Lestrade following soon after; behind Sherlock so that way he couldn't kick him again. 

“Mrs. Hudson! Have you ordered anything online lately?” Sherlock yelled as the two men made their way upstairs. 

Mrs. Hudson came out of her own flat and went into the top floor as Sherlock had just sat down in his chair and Lestrade looked outside the window to check on his car. 

“No dear, you know I don't like ordering things online. I don't know how to do anything, really. It's all just too complicated.” She nodded and slightly frowned as Lestrade looked over at her. “And too pricey.” 

“Does it have anything on it?” Lestrade asked and looked over to Sherlock, who was still frowning and twisting and turning the package. 

“No, obviously.”

“Oh, okay… Well uh-”

Sherlock gripped the glued flap of the cardboard box and ripped the whole flap off in one smooth pull. Mrs. Hudson jumped with an ‘oh neighbors!’ And Lestrade could hear his heart beating in his ears from the unexpected. 

Sherlock looked up to look at the two rattled people and slightly cocked his head to the side. 

“Did I startle you?”

“No bloody way, Sherlock!” Lestrade yelled sarcastically. 

Once the two calmed down Sherlock had already opened the package and was about to pull out whatever it held inside. Lestrade moved closer and Mrs. Hudson eyed the box with a curious and worried look. 

Sherlock pulled out a bag.

With a one dollar bill in it. 

Sherlock frowned and started to examine it, making and pointing out deductions in his head. Lestrade also frowned again and went to take the box out of Sherlock's lap to look inside to see if there was anything else left. 

Mrs. Hudson came closer to Lestrade and peeked over his shoulder to have a look into the box too. 

“Is there anything?” She asked quietly so she wouldn't interrupt Sherlock's train of thought. Lestrade shook his head and turned the box upside down, but nothing fell out of the empty box. 

“Oh lord, hopefully we can get a decent package next time with decent information to help find John.” Mrs. Hudson sighed. “Sherlocks a wreck without him. He keeps thinking about him and it always brings him down. I keep telling him to not worry because either way, they come back to us-”

“Without their memories of who they were before Mrs. Hudson. John's not gonna remember Sherlock or you when he comes back, that's why Sherlock is having such a hard time with it. John won't have a ‘Sherlock Holmes’ in his memories anymore.” Lestrade explained to her in a hushed whisper as Mrs. Hudson looked between Lestrade and Sherlock with worried glances. 

“Oh, I know dear, but this can't go on any longer. Hopefully we can find John soon and get him back here, in his chair, where he belongs.” Mrs. Hudson sighed and smiled, leaning closer to Lestrade. 

“He still owes me two milk cartons.”

 

\----

 

“They're mocking us, I'm telling you, they're mocking us.” 

“Okay, calm down. I told Harriet or Harry, that all we found was a bag with a bloody dollar bill in it. She blew up and started cursing her head off, saying she'll get everyone who had to do with this.” 

Sherlock looked around the room and his eyes landed on john's empty chair. He had lost count on how many days it had been since he was taken. He didn't even remember when he went to the store to look at the evidence. All he knew is that John Watson is missing and his head, stomach, and eyes hurt too much and were heavy. He hadn't gotten much sleep lately and it was having a toll on him. 

Talking to himself is one of them. He couldn't help it though. 

“Sherlock? Who are you talking to dear?”

“No one Mrs. Hudson.”

“Why are you talking to yourself dear?”

He hesitated before answering it with pure honesty. 

“I don't know, it sorta just… happened.”

But then again, this happened a few days ago, so Sherlock didn't know why he kept thinking and replaying the memory. 

Oh yeah, because he was officially insane without John Watson. 

And he didn't even know it. 

Neither did John. 

 

\----

 

“Have you got any more information about the case from the bodies?”

A head shook. 

“Seriously?! None?! Nada?!” 

“I'm sorry Lestrade, I've been looking and searching, but that mark was all that there was.” Molly looked frightened and slightly sorrowful. She had been working day and night and had exhausted herself so much that she had fallen asleep at her lab table, where her head was inches away from a bowl with a brain in it; much to her dismay. 

Lestrade groaned and ran his hand through his hair before down his face. His night hadn't been good either. He went home around eleven forty and only God knows why Mycroft Holmes was there. They chat about Sherlock and John and how they could solve the case. Mycroft had left when Lestrade had started to fall over from exhaustion. He woke up in his bed with a note by him.

_'Coffe never always works, but sleep does._

_-MH'_

“Git.” Lestrade mumbled. 

“What?” Molly looked surprised and she frowned. 

“Uh- not you- no- not you- it's someone that I know that I thought of.” Lestrade inwardly slapped himself at his stuttering. 

“Who? Your girlfriend?” She asked. 

“What?! No! I don't have a girlfriend.”

“Oh,” Molly nodded and looked at the bowl with the brain in it for a second before looking back at him. “A boyfriend.”

“NO!”

 

\----

 

The sunset was beautiful. It had orange, yellow, red, blue, purple, pink, and some grey. It loomed over London and Baker Street with it's array of colours and washed over the sky. Sometimes people ignored it and moved on, but other people stopped to stare at the beautiful source of light and life. Sherlock was staring at the light with colours filling his sight. It was magnificent and wonderful… Until the black spots started coming in. 

He groaned and looked away from the lamp as it blinded him from the imaginary colours that had swarm into his sight. He was in a crouched position in his chair and his arms wrapped around his knees. He glared at the lamp and his window curtains were closed, blocking out all the light in the flat. 

It was quiet in the flat, other than the people and cars outside and the fan he had bought to make some noise so he would feel less-

“Lonely…” Sherlock mumbled and buried his face into his knees, wrapping his arms around his head in the process. 

He was a lump of flesh and loose pajama clothes on his chair. His walls weren't any better either. If someone were to walk in and have a glance at the walls, they'd think there was a mad man living there. There were pictures and thumbtacks and string littered everywhere on the wall. Pictures of missing people and where they were taken and what people are suspicious. 

As he had looked through a file he found the name ‘Anderson’ and had literally put a picture of Anderson on the was with a drawn on mustache, monocle, and flower had. 

“Fucking Anderson.” He mumbled when he hung it up. 

His mind had only gotten darker as the days passed. He had no new information so he couldn't do anything. He had been walking around London and thought about how things would be when John came back, since Sherlock already knew he was too late. He couldn't do anything about John's memories and would only have to make more. 

It had already been a month since John's disappearance. How did a couple of days turn into a month? Sherlock had remembered going into the store like it were only two hours ago. 

His mind fogged up and darkened when the thought of John came around. He wanted to find him before it was too late and rip the people who thought of taking John away to shreds, but he should've done that weeks ago. A month ago. 

He was too late now. 

John Watson didn't exist to Sherlock Holmes anymore. 

Sherlock Holmes didn't exist to John Watson anymore. 

Sherlock had noticed his jaw hurt from clenching it too hard and his nails were digging into his knees and scalp when his phone rang. He quickly picked it up and didn't bother to look at the number before he pressed answer. 

The line was silent on the other side. Sherlock thought about saying something like ‘hello?’ Or ‘Sherlock Holmes’ but decided against it.

“Did you miss him?”

Sherlock's eyes widened. 

“The blondes in the bag.”

With that, the man on the other side hung up, leaving Sherlock shocked as he stared at the wall with his phone still to his ear. He jumped and made a startled yelp when someone knocked on the door downstairs. Mrs. Hudson had gone out to get groceries and was gone, leaving Sherlock to answer the door. 

He quickly got up after seconds of processing what had happened and headed for the stairs, putting on his coat to look somewhat decent. He ruffled his still damp curly hair as he made his way down the stairs. He gripped the doorknob and swung open the door to find a…

His sight had gotten blurry. 

Before him stood the man he cared about the most. The one that helped him through so many things, including depression and suicide. 

John Hamish Watson. 

Sherlock stared at his dark blue eyes as John stared back at him, confused and slightly relieved. Before Sherlock knew his arms were thrown around John and his face was hidden in John's neck. He staggered backwards a little but had caught himself before anything could happen that involved pavement. 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and held onto John like his life depended on it. His lips couldn't help but curve into a smile as his nose took in a slightly familiar scent. 

John was back. 

John was here. 

John was safe. 

John smiled and gently pushed Sherlock away so he could look at him too. Sherlock laughed and smiled more than he had in years. John joined and slightly frowned. 

“Sherlock?”

He remembers! Wait? He remembers?

“Yes John?”

“I've… I've got a question.”

“What?” Sherlock had calmed himself down but was still smiling with a slight frown coming on. 

“Who are you?” 

Sherlock's smile and happiness had left in seconds. 

His heart was just like John Watson's memories. 

An empty corpse. 

 

 

 


	7. In Which The Scars Are Named

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seconds later Mycroft was on the other side of the hall, watching the still closed door with curious eyes. Mycrofts gaze went back and forth between Lestrade and the door due to the way that Lestrade was as white as a sheet and he was breathing harshly due to the scare.  
> “John…”  
> “Yes?”  
> “Where's Sherlock?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for not being able to keep promises.... so very sorry. At least the next chapter is here now. Yeah. Sorry. The story is about to get a lot more interesting though. Just wait...... Anyways.... Onward Fellow Readers!

If 221B Baker Street had any thoughts, all it would be thinking of is how Sherlock had somehow gotten even worse. He stayed in his room and sulked and thought and sometimes allowed a couple of tears out. He had gotten back on his smoking addiction and didn't give any signs of stopping anytime soon. Mrs. Hudson was just glad that he didn't go to drinking or self harm, she didn't think that she- or John- could take that. 

Sherlock barely ate or drank anything anymore and Mrs. Hudson yelling at him to get out of his room to eat something wasn't helping either. 

She had gotten tired of Sherlock's behaviour and had called a person in his life to help with Sherlock's depression. Of course, Sherlock wouldn't like this plan, but he brought it upon himself. Yes, Mrs. Hudson understood that this is particularly hard for him and the case isn't even finished, but he should just tell himself that he should let it go and help John. 

Then again, it's like when Mr. Hudson had been arrested. She didn't say she should let it go and help him. No. She left. 

Mycroft had parked in the front of their flat as Mrs. Hudson thought about her past and what she did with her life while she was cleaning the kitchen. He sighed and looked over the roof of the car and watched as lestrade's head came into view as well. He had a nervous face on and was holding his cup of coffee quite hard. 

The men made their way towards the flat and knocked three times. Mycroft looked up at the window to see if Sherlock was peeking out, and to his dismay, we wasn't. Mycroft sighed quietly as he thought about when Sherlock did look through the window. He would usually yell at John that he was here and then hide in his room until John forced him out, then Sherlock would continue to throw glares at Mycroft and hiss at him whenever he got too close to him. 

Mrs. Hudson opened the door and looked at Lestrade before back at Mycroft. Her eyes seemed worn out and dimmed as she stared at the two men. She sighed and managed a wary smile. 

“Oh thank goodness you boys came. I've been getting really worried about Sherlock recently.” She sighed and slightly frowned with a worried expression. “He's just not the same anymore.”

“Do not waste your time fretting over my little brother, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft forced a smile and bend over slightly so he was around her height. “He will come around soon.”

“Let's hope that's true.” Lestrade mumbled as Mrs. Hudson moved out of the way to allow both men inside. She shut the door behind them once the two had entered and pointed upstairs and mouthed, ‘he's upstairs sulking’ before she left. 

“Well then,” Mycroft said as he looked at the top of the stairs, sighing in the process. “Shall we?” 

They ascended up the stairs as quietly as they could manage, Lestrade staring at the back of Mycroft Holmes. He frowned and wondered how much this had affected the elder Holmes. Sherlock has seemed to go out of his mind for some unknown reason. Lestrade and Mycroft hadn't had a clue as to what could have driven Sherlock to be how he's like now. Maybe the case had gotten to him more than he thought it would. 

He clutched his coffee cup even harder than before, impressed that the styrofoam hadn't broken from the pressure, and climbed to the top of the stairs where Mycroft had just stopped at. The door was closed, which sent alarms ringing in Lestrade’s head as the door was never closed. 

Mycroft placed his umbrella by the closed door and placed his hand on the knob, twisting it to the left and pushing it open. The two men went inside and looked around the silent flat. Sherlock wasn't anywhere to be seen and as far as Lestrade and Mycroft knew, John was still missing. 

Lestrade and Mycroft split up to find the curly haired detective in the silent, dark flat. Lestrade took the loo and Mycroft took the kitchen as they already knew the common room was empty. 

“Sherlock.” The elder Holmes brother mumbled as he saw the wall that was attacked by pictures of missing people and red string that was thrown everywhere there was a thumbtack. 

Lestrade walked slowly down the dark hall and looked around with wary eyes, his hands no longer held his coffee cup as he set it down on the table in the kitchen. His breathing could be heard, even and quiet. 

“Sherlock? Hey, you here?” Lestrade whispered as he gripped the Loo’s doorknob and twisted it, only to find that it didn't twist all the way. 

“Locked.” He mumbled and stared at the door. His head turned to his right and his eyes then went to look at Sherlock's door, closed and silent as the soul that inhabited the room. 

His footsteps could be heard as he walked towards it with slow and steady feet. He didn't like the way that the flat gave him this cold feeling inside, usually it was a bright and lighter area that could actually allow people to feel like they could breathe. 

“Sherlock,” he whispered in front of Sherlock's closed door. “Are you in here, mate?” 

Lestrade's hand was already halfway to the door knob, ready to twist it and push open to see the consulting detective. His heartbeat drummed in his ears and his breathing had slightly quickened. A click of a lock was heard as his hand rested on the knob. 

Lestrade wouldn't have been scared or gasped in fear of it was Sherlock's door, but it wasn't. 

It was the bathrooms door. 

He spun around quickly with wide eyes, completely freaked out. His knees bent so he was lower than he originally was and he screamed ‘Mycroft!’ In a whisper.  
Seconds later Mycroft was on the other side of the hall, watching the still closed door with curious eyes. Mycrofts gaze went back and forth between Lestrade and the door due to the way that Lestrade was as white as a sheet and he was breathing harshly due to the scare. 

The doorknob twist and slowly opened, creaking as it made its way out Into the hall to show what was hiding in it. Mycroft had made his move to tighten his grip on his umbrella, only to remember that he had foolishly left it out on top of the stairs, abandoned and slowly collecting dust. Lestrade leaned even lower and widened his hands to tackle the person behind the door if needed. 

The door had fully opened and Lestrade and mycroft had been about ready to tackle the person, but stopped short when familiar blue eyes had landed on both of them. They flickered between the two men and they stood there, stunned, as they took in the sight infront of them. 

“John?” Lestrade silently asked, earning two eyes locked on him and causing his to jump slightly. His eyes looked clouded and unrecognisable. 

“Yes? How do you know my name?” John asked and slightly tilted his head. He slowly leaned forward to Lestrade and narrowed his eyes in the process. “Have we met before?”

“Uh, yeah- yeah we have.” Lestrade stood up straight at that point whereas Mycroft was already standing straight and deducing John. 

He looked John up and down with a raised eyebrow before looking at Lestrade, shaking his head to answer an unsaid question. 

“John…”

“Yes?”

“Where's Sherlock?”

 

\----

 

“AND NEVER COME BACK!” Sherlocks scream echoed through the flat, followed by a loud thump and then glass shattering. The screech of car tires was heard before loud thumps on the stairs and harsh breathing. John looked up from his chair in the upstairs common room and stared at the door, waiting with a partly open mouth and wide eyes for the curly haired detective to come into view. 

Once he had John frowned somewhat. Sherlocks chest heaved with each breath and his hair was sticking out every direction. He was paler and skinnier, much too skinnier. 

Sherlock was breathing so hard that he grunted every time he breathed out and stomping his foot with each step he took.  
John, unknowing on what to do, watched as he threw his tantrum and stomped in circles around the two chairs that were John's and Sherlocks. 

Sherlock stopped in front of the wall that had the pictures and thumbtacks and string, staring at it for a second and silencing his breathing so the whole flat was quiet, before groaning in frustration and ripping every paper off of the wall. John widened his eyes more as Sherlock scratched the wall to rid of the papers, thumbtacks and string. 

John jumped up and held Sherlock's right arm that he had brought back to gain power in it before launching it back forward to rip another clump of papers off. Sherlock, yelling and screaming, pushed John back with such intensity he fell back and hit his head on the floor. John got back up with a sore right side from it scraping on the coffee table and a thumping head before going back to Sherlock. 

“Please! Quit it!” John yelled and tried to snatch another arm. 

“You don't understand!” Sherlock turned to yell at John before ripping up the papers and throwing thumbtacks around the room, not caring if it meant that someone's foot would be impaled. 

“What!?” John wailed as his eyebrows furrowed, “tell me what I don't understand!” 

Sherlock stopped and stared at John with hard and furious eyes, locked with fearful and confused eyes. 

“Your eyes…” Sherlock mumbled after a moment of silence. John, throughly confused, frowned and tilted his head to the side a little.

“What about them?” 

Sherlocks jaw clenched.

“I don't know them anymore!” Sherlock screamed and pushed past John, making him fall down again. 

“Sherlock, PLEASE!” John yelled as he scrambled up clumsily and following Sherlock with a limp due to three thumbtacks stabbing his right leg and one in his right arm. 

Sherlock turned around before he had made it to his room and strode back towards John, making his back up unconsciously. 

Mrs. Hudson had retreated back into her flat after hearing the commotion the Holmes brothers had made. Once John had shown them that Sherlock was in his room, the two men had kept knocking on the door and telling him to come out.  
Once Sherlock had, he and Mycroft had at it with an argument about John and his memory loss before it went to personal insults. Lestrade had to bud in before it had gotten physical. 

Sherlock then started insulting Lestrade and making Mycroft even more pissed and the three men had screamed their lungs off at each other. Sherlock then managed to grab a glass cup and throw it at the two, causing them to retreat back downstairs and outside. That leaded up to Sherlock chasing them to the top of the stairs, where he screamed at them and threw a shoe and a glass vase before the door had shut all the way. 

“Please what!? You don't understand! You're not John!”

“Apparently, yes I am! It's not my fault! I'm sorry I don't remember anything!”

“It doesn't have to do with you remembering it has to do with you not fighting!”

“I did! It obviously shows because i have bruises and scars!”

“Newsflash! I do too!”

“I EARNED THE SCARS FROM FIGHTING BACK TO AVOID BEING CAPTURED!”

“I EARNED THESE SCARS SAVING YOU!” 

The flat went quiet and John's hard face had soften instantly. His eyes went wide and hurt showed on his face. Sherlocks face had softened as well, but he had no signs of regret or sorrow. John shook with rage and his clenched fist turned his knuckles white. 

Sherlock blamed him for not being able to fight back. It was so unfair. Yes, John knew himself he didn't remember anything about Sherlock or anyone else he had ever met before, but that didn't mean he didn't try to get them back. John knew he had to be that guy who doesn't go down easily. He was always as stubborn as Sherlock in someway. 

“The pictures.” John whispered with hatred. 

“What?” Sherlock spat, anger dropping off his words and clouding his eyes. 

“I saw the pictures of the missing people.  
I know what the symbol looks like.”

Sherlock scoffed and glared. 

“It looks like the letters ‘I. O. U’”

“What?” Sherlock demanded and frowned, confused as the pictures and symbol flashed in his mind. 

“How do you know that it says that?” Sherlock snarled. 

“Because I have it myself. How's that for a scar?” 

John grabbed his coat and left the flat, putting it on as dramatically as Sherlock did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this story is boring or uninteresting, please tell me so I can spice things up. Until next time!


	8. In Which The Genius Is Mistaken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you stupid! Jesus! You've really lost the game now!” The man wailed and shoved Sherlock back towards the ledge the man had been sitting on.  
> “Game? This is a game? Moriarty-”  
> “Moriarty is clever. Smarter than you and your,” He scrunched up his face and pretend to squash an imaginary man in his hands, “stupid, older brother combined.”  
> “Of all things to do, why this? What would he get out of it?”  
> “You're not the only man on Earth that gets bored Sherlock. I thought you oughta know that by now.”  
> "John."  
> "Memories are easily made Sherlock, isn't that what you had said?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's yet another chapter as promised. It's getting quite interesting and fun to write now, so yeah.... ONWARDS!!!!

“The blondes in the bag.”

“The blondes in the bag.”

“The blonde is in the bag.”

“The blonde isn't in the bag.”

The Blonde’s In The Bag.

The wind blew in Sherlock's hair and face, darkening the mood and flapping Sherlock's long coat. A glare and a firm jaw set in place on Sherlock's face as he stared at the man on the roof of Barts, standing and waiting for the man to do something.

The man was about as tall as Moriarty and John, blonde, blue eyes, black suite-  
‘Expensive,’ Sherlock thought, ‘Rich man.’  
Perfectly shaved haircut and jaw.  
‘Tidy and a grooming freak.’

No ring on his fingers and a calm, almost peaceful, look on his face as he stared out at London.

He smirked and turned his head to look at Sherlock, mocking the detective with an almost drunk and satisfied look.

“How are you mister Holmes? How's John Watson?”

“Who are you? Whom do you work for?”

“A man, and classified.” The man winked and gave a dry laugh. He stood up and faced Sherlock, a smirk still planted on his face, and slowly swayed side to side.

“Beautiful day, isn't it? Just like the day when we took him in. We knew you'd come, but surprisingly, you didn't.” The man smirked wider when he saw Sherlock's harder and colder glare and clenched fist.

“He kept saying, ‘he's coming! Just you wait!’ And ‘he's smart, a genius even! He's gonna find and get you!’,” the man said and stomped his foot, a harsh and furious glare set on the man's face in seconds. “But you didn't! Did you!?”

Sherlock held himself back, knowing that three strides was all it could take to get to the man and bash his head in. John had relied on Sherlock to find and get him and he was at Baker Street drinking tea and staring at a bloody useless paper. John was out there, hurting and confused, and Sherlock was in here, staring at a television screen and yelling.

“You know, I expected you to be a lot more smarter.” The man raised one side of his lip and nodded his head, resembling the way Moriarty did at the pool once. He had the face that said ‘you failed and now he's gone, bummer’.

“You don't know.” Sherlock said.

“But I do. I know tons about you.” He raised an eyebrow and walked around Sherlock very slowly.

“How?”

“How!?” He yelled and forcefully turned Sherlock around to face him, grabbing the lapels of his coat to force him to the same height as him.

“Are you stupid! Jesus! You've really lost the game now!” The man wailed and shoved Sherlock back towards the ledge the man had been sitting on.

“Game? This is a game? Moriarty-”

“Moriarty is clever. Smarter than you and your,” He scrunched up his face and pretend to squash an imaginary man in his hands, “stupid, older brother combined.”

“Of all things to do, why this? What would he get out of it?”

“You're not the only man on Earth that gets bored Sherlock. I thought you oughta know that by now.”

Sherlock stared at the man, narrowing his eyes and trying to deduce more about him. He's tricky, very… very difficult. Different even. He's not like the others.

Nor was John.

“Why John?”

“John? Oh, well, you see, when someone takes something that someone else loves very much, that person tends to come and claim it back. But you didn't do that, oh no, you weren't clear enough to observe it.”

“John was bait…”

“Obviously.”

“I knew he was. I thought Moriarty would've done something more to him than take memories. Memories can be easily remade.” Sherlock frowned in confusion as the man smiled and laughed.

“Not when someone's life depends on it!”

\----

“How was she- wha- no….!” Sherlock whispered with wide eyes as he looked down at the body below him. The crowd of policemen surrounded him and Sherlock felt as if they were screaming at him. Lestrade seemed to be the only person who wasn't talking at all and just stared at the woman at their feet.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade whispered after frowning at both the woman and Sherlock. “There's nothing you could do about it now. She's gone Sherlock, but John's not. You can still save him if not his….” Lestrade stopped short and looked away from Sherlock in the early London air.

Harriet was on the ground, lifeless, with torn clothes, wide open eyes that were cold and used to be filled with fear, and a bloody body and face. She had been killed earlier on the day by an alcohol and drug overdose. The blood had come from her mouth, she had coughed to much and hard and got it on her hands. To try to hide the evidence she wiped her hands on her clothes, that leading to her whole abdomen and thighs to be covered with a smelly red colour.

“I should've put her somewhere she wouldn't get hurt or something… I'm sorry.” Lestrade sighed and looked regretful, holding his coffee cup tightly.

“John won't hate you Sherlock-”

“Because John's not here anymore.” Sherlock said sharply, turning to glare at Lestrade with a locked jaw.

“Stop saying that Sherlock! For God's sake, he is here! He's at the flat right now- wait, no he isn't- he's right there!” Lestrade pointed behind Sherlock, who turned to follow his fingers direction.  
There, John Watson had gotten out of a police car and shut the door behind him. He straightened out his coat before looking around, trying to find the detective. He looked over to his right before looking straight ahead, locking eyes with Sherlock and walking that way. Once he was by Sherlock he cleared his throat and frowned slightly.

“You didn't tell me you left.”

“I'm a detective, I don't need to tell you where I'm going for you to find out.”

“Still.”

“It was quite obvious.”

“Not everything is Sherlock.”

“For blank empty minds yes.”  
The two men stared at each other, each had a face of sparking anger and for John, confusion. Lestrade stood in the left of Sherlock and John was on his right, staring down Sherlock. The detective inspector had no ideas as to what he should do to stop it before it became physical, which was highly doubtful on Sherlock's part. He wouldn't hurt John Watson, even if John stabbed him or killed him, Sherlock would just sigh and look sad before accepting it. The two men saved each other in more ways than one and would never kill each other in more ways than one.

“Who… who is she?” John whispered, loud enough for only Sherlock to hear and make Lestrade lean in.

“She's your sister, not anymore, obviously.” Sherlock replied deeply, the two men still staring at each other and not breaking eye contact.

“She's my-” John widened his eyes and looked down to look at Harriet on the damp grass and mud. Her eyes looked up at them hauntingly.

Harriet's body had been found by a woman who always ran along the trail, and on this damp and cloudy day just managed to stumble across her dead body. She had screamed and immediately called the police, having to be told how to calm down before she hyperventilate.

“My sister?” John asked with a small voice that sounded about ready to crack and eyes that pleaded for it to not be the truth. Sadly, Lestrade nodded and sighed.

“I'm sorry John.”

“No! Since when did I have a sister!” John yelled, his soft and sad face leaving and replaced with a hard and stern one on.

“Why didn't I see her before she- she killed herself?!”

“John, we had to make sure she was okay before this happened! She was drunk out of her mind when she came to meet you!” Lestrade defended, making Sherlock raise and eyebrow in slight amusement to the situation.

“I don't bloody care! She's my sister!”

“Not anymore.” Sherlock added quickly, still staring ahead of him.

“SHUT UP SHERLOCK!” John screamed, earning multiple confused and concerned eyes from the policemen and women.

“Well don't yell at him! It's my fault I didn't put her anywhere safe!”

“If she was drunk why would you let out of your custody!?” John yelled, his voice getting higher and slightly cracking.

“I didn’t John! I didn’t order for her to be released!” Lestrade yelled and flailed his arms in the air the emphasize his point, spilling coffee on the ground and down his own arm. It was now Lestrade’s turn to glare at John and John’s turn to not know what to say or do.

“You didn’t order for her to be released?” John asked quietly, with a shocked face before it scrunched back up into anger and fury again, “Then who did?!”

“Me, sir.” A young brunette man came up with his hand raised to his shoulder. He was slightly taller than John and had groomed hair underneath his dark blue hat. His badge shone in the grey light and his pale face was filled with uncertainty and slight fear.

“What?” Lestrade asked and turned to the man, who had let his hand fall limp by his side and slightly move backwards in fear of what was to come next.

“It was me, I gave to order to release Harriet Watson.”

“Who on Earth said to let her go?!”

“A woman, uh- Sally? Sally-”

“Donovan?” Lestrade asked, frowning and leaning in towards the man, who stepped back in response.

“Yes, yes that’s her.” The man said with an uncertain voice, as if he was afraid of being punished beyond healing.

“DONOVAN!” Lestrade yelled, causing policemen and policewoman around them to jump and stare at him, even some glaring and making rude hand gestures to him.

“Yes boss?” Donovan asked as she approached them, looking as equally confused as the other people around them. She looked at the man who had been skulded by Lestrade, looking for answers. He only shrugged and looked fearful before looking back at Lestrade and John. Sherlock kept quiet and vigilant, raising an eyebrow at Donovan and sighing through his nose in annoyance and boredom.

“Did you order Harriet to be released?” Lestrade said in a deadly calm voice, a trace of a smile coming on.

“Yes,” She replied, frowning even more to the strange question. “I got an E-mail for her to be released.”

“An E-mail?” Lestrade asked in disbelief before scoffing and groaning in annoyance. John’s hands were already clutched into fists and shaking, anger consuming his face so much that he was red.

“Yes, an E-mail.”

“You know what- I’m done.” John said and turned on his heels before speed walking away, his coat flapping wildly behind him. Sherlock hummed and frowned, turning his head to Lestrade but keeping his eyes on John.

“I’ll be taking my leave too, Detective Inspector, text me if any new,” Sherlock looked at Donovan darkly, “information comes up.”

“Good day.” He said as he looked at Lestrade, nodding a farewell to him before leaving and chasing John, his coat imitating John’s in the breeze.

“You,” Lestrade said sharply and pointed at Donovan, causing her to raise her hands in surrender, “take Harriet’s body to Molly Hooper so she can take a look at it.”

“And you,” Lestrade pointed towards the man, “help her to make sure she doesn’t kill anyone while she’s at it. I’m going back to the station.”

“Yes sir.” The man said and followed Donovan to the ambulance to get a stretcher and body bag.

Lestrade walked towards his car, giving a random policeman his now empty coffee cup as he walked. He cursed under his breath and grumbled insults as he got it and turned the car on and left the scene. He clutched his steering wheel tightly and thought of how Harriet’s reaction would’ve been when she saw John for the first time in months. She probably would’ve hugged the soul out of him.She probably would’ve cried and smiled, she could’ve walked away.

He blinked and realized he was already parked at the station. He got out and sighed before looking up at the clouded sky. Once, just once could he solve a case without someone who’s not already dead getting murdered?

He’d do anything to keep cases death free and the number of people that had been killed to make the case stay the number of people that were killed to make the case. If Lestrade had to get on his knees and pray and plead, then he’d gratefully do that. But he couldn’t, because someone had already been killed. A sister, and not just any sister, but the victim's sister. He was frustrated enough that anyone who was killed would possibly be put under his name, in both the case and John’s head. Now he’ll be remembered as ‘the man who let my sister die’ to John.

He yelled in frustration and kicked the tire of the car repeatedly. With each kick he cursed and grunted in anger. How long would this case be? It’s been going on for four months now, more and more people are being taken and here Lestrade is, drinking coffee and kicking the tires of police cars and letting people die. He’d had enough of it and just wanted the man who’s been taking the people to just die already. Lestrade had stopped kicking the car and leaned against it, running his hands down his face.

“How long Sherlock, How long?”

\----

“I don't know, I don’t know, I can’t do anything. Just ask Mycroft to do the case for all I care! I can’t do it! I’m not the right person so stop coming up to me and asking questions you bloody psychopaths!” Sherlock yelled as he looked down the window and onto the mob of reporters that swarmed the flat.

He moaned and paced around the two chairs, still in his pajamas and blue, thin, silk robe. His hair was messed up and his face was cleanly shaven from any hairs. He looked paler and skinnier, somehow and John was staring at his pacing body from the kitchen where he stood with a frown decorating his face.

“You should eat.”

“Boring.”

“You should sleep.”

“Tedious.”

“You should relax.”

“Impossible.”

“You should stop.”

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at John, who was staring back at him with concern in his eyes. Sherlock sighed and frowned at John. He’d suddenly grown nicer to Sherlock since the yelling competition he and Lestrade had the day before.

Sherlock didn’t know why or what caused John to have the sudden urge to baby him, but it was getting slightly annoying. Especially since all John did now was stare at Sherlock and frown as he observed him. He wouldn’t have minded at all, but the fact that John does it for hours get’s on Sherlock, and the only time John isn’t watching him is when he’s locked himself in the bathroom to avoid his haunting gaze.

“Why?”

“Why what?” John asked, his eyes bearing down onto Sherlock. His eyes were haunting and empty.

“Why do you stare at me?”

“Because I care.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because you’re my friend.”

“You’re not my friend.”

“The pictures and policemen say different.”

“Haven’t you heard of not trusting strangers?”

“Well, here I am trusting you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the only person that I know.” John said, still keeping a blank expression on his face since his frown left his face.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the blonde man.

“Pictures?”

“There are pictures of me and you in the paper and on Mrs. Hudson's fireplace.”

Sherlock hummed and went to the wall where the pictures of missing people had once been and picked up papers and pictures that were littered on the floor. He hadn’t had the time to pick the ripped papers up, and thankfully some papers weren’t ripped. He sat down on his chair and glared at them, thinking. John still stared at Sherlock and continued to stand by the frame of the kitchen. He frowned as he watched the detective grip his head and stare at the papers in his lap.

“This isn’t healthy.” John whispered to himself and walked up behind Sherlock, who was now gripping his head and pulling his curls.

John put his fingertips on Sherlock's back before slowly drawing circles on his back with his whole hand. Sherlock immediately stopped pulling his curls, slightly straightened his back and widened his eyes.

“What are you doing?” He demanded quietly.

“Helping you avoid a mental breakdown. You’re on the edge of one and you’re too caught up in the case. Relax, I can help.”

“How?” Sherlock asked calmly, frowning deeper than he originally was.

“Remembering.”

Sherlock’s mobile vibrated in his pocket, ruining the moment. He quickly snatched it out of his pocket, John continuing to rub his back in small circles. Sherlock turned it on and read the text.

'Was that enough of an easily made memory?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, if this story is uninteresting do tell me and I'll try to spice things up. Thank you for all who have read and commented on this story so far, it means a lot. Until next time.


	9. In Which The Truth Is Taken Out Of Grasp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I figured something out. SHERLOCK!” John harshly whispered and leaned in closer to Sherlock's ear with a frown on his face.   
> “What?” Sherlock snapped and turned to his right to face John who was crouched down on the side of Sherlock's bed with his pajamas on too.   
> "The blondes in the bag Sherlock!"  
> \---  
> "John? What's going on? What's happening?"  
> "It's okay Sherlock... just know I'm sorry."  
> "JOHN!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the late update, I just needed some time to think and have some alone time. But as promised, here's the next chapter! Woo-hoo! And a little note for after you read the chapter- Don't hate me.... the story is just starting. :P  
> Anyways! ONWARD FELLOW SHERLOCKIANS!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

“Do you understand?” John asked, his eyes bearing down into Sherlocks. 

“Yes…” 

“No.”

“Shut up.”

Sherlock threw the papers into the air and swiftly flung himself out of his chair and into the kitchen. He sighed and grabbed a coffee cup before filling it with hot tea that John had recently relearned to do. John had ran to Sherlock, carrying a cup of fresh tea, and shoved in his face with a face splitting smile when he learned. 

“Just drink it!”

“Don't trust strangers.”

“I'm your bloody friend!”

Sherlock smirked as he recalled the memory with a smug face as he put the rim of the cup against his lips. 

He, Sherlock, was a great friend. 

Sherlock entered the common room again where John was staring at him as he made his way to his chair. John was also sitting in his chair, but he moved the chairs closer so the two men could work on the case together. 

"Why'd you do that?”

Sherlock shrugged and took another sip of tea, making sure to over exaggerate his confused expression. 

"Do what?”

“You're rubbish.”

“Don't say such things of your memory, that won't help you remember anything useful.”

“HEY!” John grabbed the file filled with papers and chucked it at Sherlock, who laughed and ducked as it went flying above his head. 

He sat down next to John, who was now glaring at Sherlock, and set the tea by his foot. He took a deep breath in and his smile faded, leaving a serious and hard face in it's awake. He intertwined his fingers and placed them in front of his lips, staring and thinking. 

"You know what i think Sherlock?”

"No.”

“I think that there's a hidden message in the words.”

Sherlock looked so at John, who was mirroring Sherlock's serious face. His eyebrows set at a light frown and his eyes uncertain, yet bold. 

“Oh?”

“Well, seeing that I don't remember anything and, what's his name?”

“Moriarty.” Sherlock mumbled. 

“Right, seeing that he likes games, he would do something like that… right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed and leaned back into his chair, his aching back relaxing. “He would do something like that, but I don't exactly have the right clue as to what it would mean.”  
“What do you have?” John asked and raised an eyebrow in curiosity. 

Great, another thing that John wanted to know about but wouldn't help him remember. Sherlock had no idea as to what he should do to help his fellow used-to-be friend. Mrs. Hudson had been very happy that Sherlock had began to come out of his shell, but somewhat sorrowful when he locked himself up in his room after the fight the two men had. 

“The blondes in the bag.”

“Yes, I know.” John said with a curt nod. 

“I-”

“Don't understand? Neither do I. But I know that the symbol that all returned lost ones have looks like the letters I-O-U.” John frowned and slightly tilted his head to the right as he narrowed his eyes to the ground. “What does that mean?”

“It's just a-” 

Bloody hell…… what does he say?

“A joke from a friend.”

John looked at Sherlock. 

“Who likes to play a little too much.”

John raised his eyebrow. 

“And fire.”

John frowned again. 

“And putting people in it.”

“How nice.”

“I know. He's a knee slapper.”

SHIT!

Sherlock mentally killed himself from those words. What kind of explanation was that?! A knee slapper? And Sherlock was supposed to be the smart one!  
Sherlock cleared his threat and looked back up at John instead of staring at the floor. 

“What are you smirking for!?”

"Nothing….. that joke was just a knee slapper.”

“Shut up.”

  
\----

  
Wrong. No. Incorrect. Think. Relax. Stop. 

Go. 

Sherlock let out a frustrated growl and clutched the papers in his fist harder, glaring at the door which showed a particularly hated figure. 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock spat. 

“Little brother.” He said with a smile as he made his way to sit in John's seat. He looked around and slightly grimaced from the sight before looking at his younger brother. 

“How are you?”

“Terrible.”

Mycroft smiled once again and tilted his head up to get a good look at the papers in Sherlock's hands. He raised his unimpressed and poked the stack of papers that had just been crumpled. 

"How far into that are you?”

"Very.”

“Doubtful.”

Sherlock growled again and glared at Mycroft harder. Did he think this was some type of sick joke? Obviously he did! Sherlock would like to see him try to solve this! He wouldn't had even found the scars on the people until a couple of weeks…. okay, days, but Sherlock's point still stands. 

“It's quite obvious Sherlock.”

“Really? Haven't noticed.” He bit sarcastically. 

“You always were quite empty headed.” Mycroft mumbled to himself, as if Sherlock wasn't in the room. 

“You were always quite hungry!” 

“Don't pester me of my weight Sherlock,” Mycroft said with a deeper voice, his smile straining. “I could go all day bothering you if your nonexistent intelligence.”  
Oh he's done it now. 

"Fine!” Sherlock yelled and stood up with a furious gaze on Mycroft.

“You solve this bloody case since it's so easy!” He threw the papers at Mycroft's face, which smacked him before all the papers dispersed and fell to the floor. 

"Think, you retard. Where was John at? Where did you let him get kidnapped?”

“The shop.” 

“Good boy. Now what did the man say?”

“The cash is in the bag.”

“WRONG!”

“WRONG?!” Sherlock yelled back questioningly. 

“You're so stupid Sherlock. You might as well tell Lestrade you can't solve it.”

“Get out.”

“Well then open your empty eyes and see the evidence that's right infront of you!”

“GET OUT!” Sherlock snatched mycroft by the lapels of his tuxedo and dragged his to the stars before shoving his down it. Mycroft stumbled but managed to get his balance before he fell down the whole flight. 

“You're blind, little brother.”

Sherlock went back into the common room before slamming the door behind him so he muffled Mycroft's voice. 

“Forget John, save the whole thing instead of just one soul.”

Mycroft paused. 

“Then Again, you weren't able to save Harriet…. why should I hold so much hope in you?” 

And with that, Mycroft left.

  
\----

  
“Sherlock?” 

“Hmm?” Sherlock angrily hummed with his face in his pillow.

Seriously, it was three in the morning, the least John could do was wait until five. 

“Sherlock.”

"Huh?” He grumbled again, his tired body gaining enough strength to make a frown appear on his face. 

Sherlock was sprawled out on his queen sized bed with his thin white blanket sheets carelessly thrown over his drained form. Three quarters of his face was hidden In his pillow and soaked from drool from a used-to-be good night's sleep. His hair was messy and crumpled and his pajamas were lose, his striped bottoms being a little too loose. 

"I figured something out. SHERLOCK!” John harshly whispered and leaned in closer to Sherlock's ear with a frown on his face. 

“What?” Sherlock snapped and turned to his right to face John who was crouched down on the side of Sherlock's bed with his pajamas on too. Judging by the way John was talking and how wide his eyes were, he's wide awake. And judging by Sherlock's face and how closed his eyes were, he didn't care. 

“Sherlock, the dollar bill was in the plastic bag, right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock groggily answered, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles before glaring back at John once again, “and?”

“Sherlock, that's it.”

“What?”

“The cash is in the bag.”

Sherlock stared at John, his mind racing to understand what he had just been told. Yes, the cash was in the bag, and? What the bloody gravel was he supposed to do with that? 

“What else was in the bag Sherlock?” John's voice cut Sherlock out of his daze and back into John's wide eyes. 

“The blonde-”

"Who was blonde Sherlock? Who's blonde?! WHOS THE BLONDE!?”  
Sherlocks eyes widened in realisation. 

"The cashier.”

  
\----

  
“Yes, I'm Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, and I'm here to look at a cash register to make sure of something for a case.” Sherlock said quickly to the man who was staring at him like he was a mad man with an eyebrow raised. Confusion was colouring his eyes.   
Retard. 

"Who? Why do you need to look at our register? What case are you on?”

"Sherlock Holmes, I need to check for dents and possible signs of a struggle and I'm on the case ‘The-”

What was the case called anyways? He never thought about that. Usually it was John who named them. 

That's it. 

“The case ‘The Missing J’.”

Nailed it Holmes. 

“The missing Jay? What, the bird?”

“No, the letter J! Look, I don't have the time to explain! Just let me in and I'll be out as quickly as you can breath.” 

“Look,” the man sighed and put his hand on his hip as the other ran through his brown hair. “I don't know if I could permit that-”

“I've done this before.” Sherlock said nonchalantly with annoyance written on his face. Seriously, how did this guy get a job in the first place?

“What? You have?”

“Yes, excuse me.” Sherlock said as he shoved the man out of the way to go check on the register that John had been taken at. The cashier had given him a confused look as he told him to go get another cash register to work at and told the annoyed people in line to leave and get another line to wait in. 

Once they had left- throwing Sherlock dirty looks and even some curse words with inappropriate hand gestures- he got to work. He pulled out his magnifying glass out of his coat and checked each crevice of the register. He knew things would be covered up by other people's hand prints and being cleaned by the janitors, but it was still worth a look. 

Sherlock frowned after he looked for an hour and maybe fifteen minutes, he looked up and thought of another way to understand things.   
He pulled out his phone and scrolled down the contacts list. 

' _Gregory_ ’

Who the hell is that?

' _John_ ’

He pressed the button to dial John and looked around, waiting for the ringing to stop and a voice to answer. He ignored the weird looks that were thrown his way and smirked when John answered. 

“Hello?”

“John, I need your input on something.”

“Okay?”

“The cash register that you were taken at has been cleaned and restored back to normal, you can tell by the one dent on a key-” 

“Sherlock.”

“Right. Sorry. Anyways, it's been cleaned and there's no way to know exactly what happened. Should I just leave it and stare at the papers at the flat,” Sherlock turned away from the people and smirked. “Or should I risk it and go into the surveillance room?”

"Whoa, okay, let's not do that.”

“Then?” 

“Just… I don't….”

“John?”

“Yeah?” Johns voice went from shocked to worried. 

"John? What's wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing, Sherlock,”

“John?” Sherlock turned and stared at the door with wide eyes.   
He should leave. Get John before something happens again.

Dammit it's only ten A.M!

"Sherlock, whatever you do, know I'm sorry and I tried to remember. You'll solve this case, I know you can.”

“John!” Sherlock panicked and looked around, not noticing his feet were already halfway down the street. “No one's that clever to solve this!”

Sherlocks blood went cold when he heard John laugh quietly. 

"You are.”

“JOHN!”

  
\----

  
“MAXIMUM BACKUP! I NEED MAXIMUM BACKUP!” Sherlock yelled at his phone as he sprinted down the street to the the flat where John was. 

Was. 

His chest heaved and burned along with his legs. He didn't plan this day to go out like this. Hours ago John was In Front of him, literally giving him the answers to the case. Now he's gone!

Once again, he slipped through his fingers. 

“He's gone again!?” Lestrade yelled through the phone in disbelief. 

“YES!” 

He hung up and continued the sprint, practically running into the door of Baker Street. He fumbled with his keys before opening it and sprinting upstairs to find it empty. 

No. No, not again. 

"JOHN!” Sherlock yelled with a raspy voice due to his dry throat from sucking in air, “JOHN!”

He ran around the flat, his breath hitching each time he came to an empty room.

“JOHN!”

Empty. 

“JOHN!”

No reply. 

"JOHN!”

Alone. 

"JOOOHN!”

Sherlock sank to his knees in the middle of the common room and wrapped his arms around himself. He couldn't breathe and his eyesight was blurry due to the wind blowing in them when he was sprinting. Or maybe it wasn't the air at all.

"JOHN!” He screamed as he threw his head up to the ceiling, his face crinkled as if in pain. A soft and quiet sob wrung itself out of his body. 

"JOHN!” 

"SHERLOCK!” Lestrade yelled as he ran upstairs. He gasped at the sight of Sherlock and and ran so fast to the detective he almost slid In Front of Sherlock. 

"Sherlock.” Lestrade whispered as he stared at the crumbling detective In Front of him. Sherlocks head was tucked back into his chest and he curled in himself. 

“Sir,” a man said from the stairs, shocked as well by Sherlocks sight. “There's a package.”

“By who?” Lestrade asked, a furious frown on his face. His eyes blazed with anger. 

“Unknown sir.”

Lestrade took the package and ordered the man to look around the flat with the other policemen and women and ask people around the flat if they saw anything. 

“John.” Sherlock softly whispered and clenched his eyes shut.   
Taken. 

"Sherlock, there's a- a package.”

Sherlock held his hand out, the rest of him still curled as he stayed in his knees, and waited for the cardboard to touch his hand. Lestrade placed it on his hand and Sherlock put it on the ground In Front of him before he uncurled and opened it. His eyes widened when he pulled out the thin CD and he threw his head back up into the air as his back arched to the ceiling. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut and let a scream out to display his agony. 

The CD. 

'John Watson's PlayTime With His Mind’

 

 

 

 

 

 


	10. In Which The Light Is Smothered By Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is no love in war.... only hate."

 

 

 

The bag.

 

Oh god the bag.

 

Sherlock stared at the bag as if it had just insulted his family. His eyes were glaring holes into that bloody bag that held so many lies, and yet one truth. One truth that Sherlock hoped to have very soon so that way this case could finally be over.

 

“This is the one, right?” Molly asked quietly as she came up to stand by Sherlock.

 

She had heard about how John had been taken yet again and how Sherlock had reacted to it. She kept sending Sherlock sorrowful looks and small smiles and it was getting annoying to him. Like she wouldn’t have had a mental breakdown due to someone that they care about most in the world being taken again!

 

“Yes, this is the one,” Sherlock said with a baritone voice before looking at Molly. “Thank you.”

 

Molly hummed and nodded.

 

“Look, Sherlock, I’m very busy with paperwork so I might have to leave right now to get it done with. I’ll be back as soon as possible though-”

 

“Okay,” Sherlock mumbled as he looked back at the large black bag on the table in front of him. “Don't be surprised if I’m gone b the time you get back.”

 

“I won’t.” She sighed and turned to the door and opened it, looking back at sherlock before she left. “I’m not the only one who’s busy.”

 

Once Molly left Sherlock got to work. He put on his black leather gloves to protect the bag from his fingerprints. Sherlock pulled out his magnifying glass and got rid of his thick coat, placing it on a chair and exposing his purple button up. He stretched his hands before glaring back at the bag, slowly approaching the bag as if it carried a disease.

 

He unzipped the bag carefully and opened it, peering inside of it before grimacing in disgust. The smell, oh the smell.

 

Blood.

 

Sherlock put down the magnifying glass and went to the counters in the lab. He opened a drawer and pulled out a bag to put any discoverings in before he went back to the smelling bag. Grimacing due to the strong smell, he turned on the light above him and aimed it directly into the bag for better lighting.He narrowed his eyes and looked around, frowning when a shine reflected the light for a fraction of a second. Sherlock closed his eyes and moved slightly side to side to see if he could see the light again, which he did. He stopped at a specific angle where the light hit the source and reached out to grab it. Once he knew his fingers grasped it he pulled it out and brought it inches from his face, his eyes widened from the object.

 

A golden strand of hair.

 

“The blonde is in the bag.”

 

\----

 

Lestrade sat at his desk, finger intertwined and lips pressed up to them. On his desk he had the missing people files, or as Sherlock had named them, ‘The missing J’.He had a red apple and a hot coffee cup with the usual staple and pencils and pens. He also had a stack of post-it notes and regular lined and print paper.

 

What he didn’t have on his desk was a small DNA bag with a strand of hair in it and a straight faced Sherlock hovering over him as he stared off into the distance that was nonexistent. But jeez, Lestrade only wanted a couple of minutes to think without a Holmes breathing down his neck.

 

“Yes Sherlock?” He asked, raising his eyebrow but continuing to stare of into the distance, unblinking.

 

“I found evidence Lestrade!” Sherlock said with slight desperation in his voice, his mask that he always wore was cracking infront of him.

 

“A hair? Who’s-”

 

“Johns,” Sherlock says and presses his lips together as he looked around the room painfully. “It’s Johns.”

 

Lestrade coughed a fit after choking on his spit before leaning closer to Sherlock, eyes and mouth wide open.

 

“JOHNS?!”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How- What- When- How?” Lestrade wailed and slumped back into his seat, his hands coming to cover up his face.

 

He was so stupid. How did he not check the bag? It’s not his division to check the bloody bag, that’s why!

 

“I checked after I found it in the bag at the labs. Molly doesn’t know yet, I haven’t told her and she herself said they had just gotten the bag to examine yesterday. Molly, being as considerate as she is, told me I could check the bag first before anyone else does. I did and found this,” Sherlock mentioned to the bag. “And found out it was John’s hair.”

 

“Oh God Sherlock,” Lestrade mumbled from behind his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“I know.”

 

The silence bore down on both men as they avoided eye contact and speaking. Sherlock looked around, trying to gather his mind back together before it goes savage again and causes him to do things he doesn’t want anyone to see. Lestrade on the other hand kept his face hidden as he mentally beat himself up for his stupidity. Really, this case would have been halfway over by now if they had found that sooner. Sherlock wouldn’t be here if they had found that earlier.

 

John would be in the flat if they had found it earlier.

 

“You know what this means?” Sherlock quietly asked Lestrade, who had moved his hands so he could look at Sherlock.

 

“No, what?”

 

“The blondes in the bag. The cash is in the bag.”

 

Lestrade gasped as his mind solved the puzzle.

 

“John was the cash and the blonde, Lestrade.”

 

Sherlock crumpled the bag in his fight fist.

 

“John was in the bag.”

 

\----

 

 

“Are you sure you want to watch this?” Lestrade asked again as Sherlock put the disk in the telly.

 

“Yes, for the millionth time. I have to watch this to understand what happened. I have to know so I can save John and the missing people.”

 

“Okay.” Lestrade sighed and closed his eyes, putting his hands up in surrender. Sherlock sat down next to him on the couch, staring at the blank screen to watch the truth that it was about to show.

 

Lestrade hadn’t planned his day to end up like this, him and Sherlock on the couch about to watch a video that came from Johns captors. Why, he should’ve made some popcorn for the two of them to share!

 

“Here we go.” Sherlock mumbled when the screen showed a date. The same date when John was first taken.

 

The screen went to a high view of a shop, looking down at the people who were shopping, talking, and laughing. It the fast forward on it’s own to when it was around ten to nine at night. A man came into view and put his items on the conveyor belt. The camera was facing towards the man's front and to the cashiers back.

 

John smiled at the cashier and said something, possibly ‘hello’. The cashier seemed to say it back because John's smile widened and he replied to the man. The two had a small conversation and the cashier scanned the items and put them in plastic bags. John payed with his card and when he went to grab the bags before a man in a black suit came up behind the cashier and wrapped his arms around from the back before throwing him to the ground. John had been alarmed by this and was about to attack the man before he was grabbed by another one of the men from behind, who had started to drag John backwards. John had struggled and managed to punch the man in the face, he yelped and let go of John, who went to help the cashier who had been dragged out of view.

 

“John you idiot.” Lestrade looked to his right where Sherlock had mumbled before turning his attention back to the screen.

 

The man who John punched got up and ran to where John had, clutching his nose as he did so. The camera view was empty for a couple of seconds before the cashier was by the door with a black bag. The bag was large, a large black bag. Large. Black bag. John was in the bag, wasn't he? Yes, he was.

 

The cashier looked around the store. He slowly backed up as he kept glancing around, before he put his hand on the door and pushed it open, dashing into the night. The bag was with him and it was droopy and the cashier looked like he had a hard time carrying it on his shoulder.

 

The screen went black and remained that way for about thirty seconds before it showed the date again.

 

The black screen went to a room that was empty besides a chair in the middle. In that chair sat a man with his head hung low to his chest, his hands behind his back and his ankles tied. There was no sound but the breathing of the man, the blonde man.

 

“Christ, it’s John.” Lestrade whispered and sat up straighter, leaning in along with Sherlock.

 

John sat there and did nothing. Absolutely nothing. It wasn’t until there was a dull bang when John looked up, eyes quickly searching the room before he visibly relaxed again. He sighed and slumped his shoulders and threw his head back in either annoyance or uncertainty. John didn’t know whether or not he’d leave that place.

 

He did, just without his memories.

 

His head snapped back up and he looked down at the floor, looking as if he heard something but debating whether or not he heard it or not. The door then opened and he looked up at the opening, his tired eyes growing into vigilant and sharp ones. He glared at the door that was out of sight from the camera. A man entered and laughed at John with a deep voice, slowly walking up to John, with what Sherlock and Lestrade could guess, a smile. He stopped as soon as he was in front of John, hovering over him. Instinctively, John sat up straighter and glared even harder at the man.

 

He was blonde with camouflage jeans and a worn out white tank top. He had on combat boots that were the peach colour of sand and messy yet neat hair. His face was unknown as the camera faced his back and his body covered up John halfway from view.

 

_“John Watson-”_

 

 _“Dr to you.”_ John interrupted, a calm yet hardened look on his face.

 

Sherlock let out a breath and closed his eyes for a moment. It felt nice to hear his voice again when he really was still John. The man only tilted his head slightly down and flicked his right hand in a dismissive way.

 

 _“Dr. John Watson,”_ He sneered. _“What a guy. Sherlock's pet, right?”_ He asked as he brought up his hand to touch John's cheek, who only remained still.

 

_“Yeah, you’re his alright. Say, what would he say when he figures out you’re gone?”_

 

 _“He’ll find me. He’s smart, unlike you. He’ll get me, then you.”_ The man laughed and removed his hand from John's face.

 

 _“He’s smart? Wow, what had he filled your head with?”_ The man shook his head, his face probably now held a smirk. _“Lies.”_

 

 _“It’s not a lie,”_ John growled. _“Sherlock knows. He knows everything.”_

 

 _“John,”_ The man said as if trying to reason with him, _“He’s a fake, a lie, a scandal. He looked you up before you got to meet him. He’s not smart, he’s just good at researching.”_

 

 _“Liar.”_ John said with a harsh voice. _“Bloody liar.”_

 

_“Okay, whatever you say sweet pea. Just don’t go crying when he leaves you for nothing.”_

 

_“He won’t, he’s not that kind of guy.”_

 

Sherlock's chest clenched. John held so much hope in Sherlock, and he blew it away. He let John down when he thought he’d come for him. ‘Not some kind of guy’ he is.

 

 _“But I am. I’ve been sent here to have some playing time with you John, and I thought we’d start this as soon as possible to keep you less bored.”_ The man mocked as he leaned

in closer. _“I know that I’m bored.”_

 

 _“Give me your best shot.”_ John spat, glaring the man down, _“This will only leave more evidence for Sherlock.”_

 

The man laughed and turned around and stared straight at the camera, a cold smile on his face.

 

 _“I’m sure Sherlock loves murders.”_ He turned around and punched John so hard the chair John was sitting in fell down and skid.

 

The screen then went black and silence rang throughout the flat. Sherlock and Lestrade were left to stare at the screen with wide and furious eyes, Lestrade's mouth was wide open.

 

“My boys.” Sherlock and Lestrade whipped around on the couch to look at Mrs. Hudson by the door.

 

“My precious boys. One is gone and the other is suffering.” She said softly and closed her eyes.

 

“All love has been forgotten.”

 

She walked down into her room and left Sherlock and Lestrade to stare at where she had been.

 

“All love has been forgotten.” Sherlock mumbled as he looked at the pictures of John, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson on the fireplace.

 

“There is no love in war.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another chapter...... next one will be out soon..... Just like someone else.......


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